


Billets Doux

by ashamedbliss, orphan_account



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Crossdressing, F/M, First Love, Forced Prostitution, Language Barrier, Love Letters, M/M, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashamedbliss/pseuds/ashamedbliss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1891, the beginning of the era of all things risqué in Paris. It all starts with one letter, one like no other...</p>
<p>cross-posted from <a href="http://museslash.livejournal.com/tag/%5Bseries%5D%20billets%20doux">livejournal</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: we don't own Muse, neither of us were alive in 1891 so this might not be 100% accurate, and neither of us are French (although I pretend to be), so there might be mistakes there too.
> 
> We might continue this soon...

> 2nd November, 1891.
> 
> _ Cher journal, _
> 
> _ It is such a pleasure to be writing again, after all these years ! Monsieur Aubertin very kindly bought me a little present, in celebration of Toussaint... not a common thing, but nice enough all the same! I shan’t get used to gifts from him, this one was rare in any case. It is a small leather journal, small enough to sit in the inside pocket of my jacket, although I never would put it there. What if a client were to find it, and all my secrets inside ! _
> 
> _ After the fête, we had much business today. I had no less than three male clients, all of the same type: balding, heavy, utterly miserable. The day ended with a woman, cruel as the Devil himself ! Pleasant enough on the eye, and gave me a whole franc to keep out of my Master’s sight. He pays me well enough, I cannot bemoan him, yet this secret bears quite heavy on my heart. Oh ! it is not as if you are innocent, truly, are you Mathieu ? You have sinned your whole life, a small lie will do you no further harm ! _
> 
> _ I ache, now, as I sit on my bed, cramped under the rafters. Paris thrives around me yet I feel the cold of winter sinking into my bones. I work in the heart of the city of love, yet my heart is void of all emotion. I suppose it could always be worse, at least I have three meals a day and a roof over my head, love be damned ! My love is sold daily to the highest bidder, I just pray each night that one day, someone will buy my love for the rest of my life. _
> 
> _ Or perhaps, cher journal, I will give it to them for free. _
> 
> _ Adieu, my new friend. I shall try to write often ! _
> 
> _ Mathieu x _

 

He lays the little book down on his stomach. Breathing a fine sigh of repose, his eyes drift up into the rafters of the place he has called home for six years now. This is not the place he was born; well, he doesn’t think so, anyway. All that springs to mind when he thinks of his birthplace is the filthy backstreets of Paris. It has been so long now since he was plucked out of the darkness; even he can barely remember it now. For five innocent years he was a fosterling in his master’s house, but as soon as he was old enough to earn his keep he was flung into the whorehouse. Mathieu did not mind it terribly, though - the company was certainly entertaining. He could never complain if there was money to be earned, and ample food. Since having so little as a child, the novelty of sustenance and shelter was no bad thing to him.

“ _Coucou_ , what are you writing over there?” He shuffles around, juggling the book between his startled fingers. He had not realised she was awake; there had been little interruption in her radiant sleeping breaths against his cheek.

“”N-Nothing, _ma chèrie_ ,” he says, pressing the journal and the stub of a pencil into the crack between the mattress and the wall. Cécile sleepily wraps an arm around his waist as he settles himself again, yet he does not have the energy to shrug her off, tonight. She curls up behind him, pressed tight against his back as the blankets do not provide as much warmth as their bodies share.

“You know we don’t have secrets,” she mumbles sleepily, her lips ghosting across his shoulder-blade. He shrugs it off, as subtly as he can.

“And _you_ know we’re past all of that tripe,” he says cautiously, hoping to simply fall asleep and not have to continue the conversation. Of course, Cécile was not his best friend for her vocal submissiveness.

“Mathieu,” she says sternly, loud enough for him to turn to face her. This is the way it was with Cécile. One moment she was his sister, his friend; the next she was his mother, bossy, relentless. He can never say no to her.

“You heard old Denis, if he catches us again he said he would--”

“Kill us?” Cécile laughs softly, just a whisper in the room full of sleeping girls. “He wouldn’t dare,” she says, although she gives Mathieu the smallest bit of space as she settles down again. “We make him too much money,” she says as her eyes flutter shut again. Mathieu’s eyes drink in her peaceful face, the little golden eyelashes, the parted lips; he’s never been too fond of her teeth, he must admit, but he hardly boasts a perfect set himself. He shudders, thinking of the haggard old whores he has seen crooning on street corners. He is glad that both him and Cécile are lucky enough to have teeth at all, let alone a full set.

Cécile was the first friend he’d made upon his transition from Monsieur Aubertin’s living quarters to the brothel, in the lively 18ème arrondissement of Paris, famous for its red-light district. She had looked at him as he shook with fright, eyes wet with tears and a small sack of clothes in his hand. She had placed her hands on her hips, told him “tais-toi” and shown him upstairs to the very bed they were laying in. She’d taught him the rules and hierarchy of the establishment, she’d taught him how to kiss with those soft lips of hers, she’d taught him how to suck on a prick by pleasuring his own.

And she expected absolutely nothing in return, except his companionship and his platonic love.

Mathieu wraps his arms around her as he closes his eyes, and he feels her shift into his warm embrace as he falls asleep.

*

The wrought iron headboard smacks against the wall with every thrust of Dominic’s hips. Beneath him, the servant boy pants, moaning so loudly it rings through the house like the morbid chimes of Big Ben. Internally, Dominic smirks. Thank God his mother isn’t home. This one would wake the entire household with his noises, he would.

This sort of mischief is nothing out of the ordinary. Why, this is quite tame for him. It is nothing compared to the sort of nights he’s spent in the mires of London, the very darkest pits of depravity. If for Mathieu, shall we say, the pleasures of the flesh are a profession, then to Dominic they are a game, a hobby, if not an obsession. A simple romp under the covers is really quite trivial. It shall all be over soon, and forgotten in lieu of his next partner, of course. What was his name again? David? Daniel? He was fairly sure it began with ‘D’. Or perhaps it was ‘C’? Oh, but what did it matter? His plaintive virginity is satisfying all the same.

An arch of his back, a moan as sweet as poetry, one last metallic clang, and it is over. Clean as an execution. The whelp beneath him mewls pitifully, sprawling around with legs askew. Dominic rises, scrutinising him coldly. Oh, he does hate it when they get too abandoned. They can be terribly melodramatic about these things - and God, he finds it most abhorrent when they are too clingy. They must learn that these matters are below casual to the likes of him. He brushes off a searching, longing arm like a creeping reptile.

“S-Sir, thank you-”

“Oh, don’t start that nonsense.” His voice is a bullet through the Romantic heart. One can see the very euphoria fall from his lover’s face like a game-bird from grey skies. Poor, poor creature. The innocent young thing will soon come to know that pure spiritual love is a mere fairy-tale.

Dominic stands from the bed, wrinkling his nose at the mess. He looked to the boy. He was a servant, yes? A cleaner?

“You. Tidy this up before Mother returns, or she’ll wring both our necks. You know how she likes this place to be pristine.”

The servant fumbles for his clothes, dumbfounded. “I - At once, Sir.”

And then, to Dominic, he may as well have ceased to exist. That room, the bed, its passions; it all vanishes in a puff of smoke as soon as he leaves Now, in his study, he is a man of composure, of learning. Ravish a servant-boy? Him? Preposterous! Who would suggest such a thing of one of London’s most beloved men about town? He has far more civilised things to attend to now. A letter, in particular, with a seal he doesn’t recognise. The handwriting does not strike resemblance to any he’s seen before, until he takes note of the Parisian postmark and is reminded of his distant Uncle Denis, with some stuffy old job in some grotty old street. Dominic sniffs the air, thanking his mother for escaping that dreadful country and starting her life anew in London. Dominic reads, the warm tone the letter starts with soon fades, and by the end of it he feels as if he has been personally attacked. Dominic has never cared to reply to his distant French family before, but this fated afternoon, he finds himself struck by a stroke of absolute fury. Perhaps it would be a good deed - one of very few - to give his poor uncle a piece of his mind.

He takes up his pen.

*

Mathieu has no particular need to sneak around the furnished part of the house, especially when dressed in the finery he reserves for his clientele, yet it is a habit he learnt when he was a small boy and it still has not left him, even as a young gentleman. He hears Aubertin’s voice booming in his drawing room, and Mathieu shies away from the noise, turning and immediately walking straight into one of the maids.

“ _Pardon_ ,” he rushes to say, but she says it first with a blush. She’s evidently new as she gawps at Mathieu, a blush the same colour as Mathieu’s red blouse, marking him as one of the spécialisé members of the household. Her arms are full of papers and letters, many of which dropped to the floor in their collision. Mathieu bends, uttering condolences as he gathers them all and quickly presses them back into her arms. With a timid smile and a tiny courtesy, she rushes off in the same direction whence she came.

Mathieu blinks after her, in a state of mild shock. Never had he been courtsied before. The woman must be quite mad.

Readying himself for the flights of stairs up to his living quarters, where sadly he must surrender his frivolous garb in exchange of his ragged, ‘out of sight’ clothing (as Aubertin likes to put it, in that condescending sneer of his), Mathieu puffs up his chest and turns around.

A letter is lying on the floor. Looking around, the shy maid in her black and white of an ordinary member of the household is nowhere to be seen. Some impish spirit creeps into his heart, if only for a moment. Pick it up, it urges. Aubertin will never know. How his fingers itch! That envelope might be made of gold, or sublimated pearls, the way it tantalises him! He is barely conscious of his own movements, and soon he realises he is already crouched there on the carpet with the precious trinket quivering between his fingers.

He unfolds the envelope, easing out the letter with in. _Mon dieu!_ This paper is as soft as feather-down, and so white! The embossing on its borders, and the fine gold gilt spelling, ‘from the desk of Dominic Howard, Islington, London. He gasps. Oh, London! It is like some fantastical, distant citadel to him. Poor, ignorant wretch that he is. Any reader of the English persuasion would know that he is quite inaccurate in his daydreaming.

Mathieu thanks God, in that moment, for his Wednesday afternoon regular. An English fellow; some say he must be mad but other cite him as a genius. The first time, Mathieu had no idea why the man refused to undress, even when Mathieu got so desperate to know what he was doing wrong that he tried to tease it out of him himself! Alas, the chap simply wanted to talk. And in English, nonetheless. Week by week, Mathieu was subject to ramblings of two hours in length, his young mind soaking up the English like water would take to a sponge. A reply was never expected of him, and he never once was expected to give himself to the man. Mathieu had always thought it as the best part of his week, and would be sad when said gentleman left his services.

Oh, how I thank you now, sweet, strange Englishman! For this shall make a wonderful pastime; now he has a living, breathing friend with whom to correspond. And from the eloquent form of each rounded letter he appears to be a man of learning, too. Standing from the floor at the sound of his Master approaching, he steals back to that little, crowded room where all his accomplices roost. There the pen is awaiting him; waiting to breathe life into some new chapter of his misadventures!


	2. Chapter 2

> Monsieur DENIS AUBERTIN to Master DOMINIC HOWARD
> 
> 27th October 1891, Montmartre, Paris
> 
> _My dearest nephew,_
> 
> _Your darling_ maman _wrote to me recently; there is nearly a week passed since her letter arrived. She instructed me to write you in English, as sadly, she writes, your French leaves much to be desired._
> 
> _My letter to you today is a short one, and excuse me if I am blunt, but there has been a long time since I last corresponded in English. I am here to offer you guidance or whatever you require of me, as a father figure; what with your papa away with the Army and all that. What is he now, a Brigadier? Isabella tells me that it is a great shame you did not sign up as he did; she has a mother’s pride and assumes that you would have risen through the ranks quickly. Perhaps I do not share her pride, and see you clearly for what you are; a young, foolish man in desperate need of guidance._
> 
> _I have the honour to be your newest confidant. My insurance firm here in Paris is ever in need of hardworking apprentices, if you ever see yourself fit for the challenge. One day you may even become a broker like myself._
> 
> _Adieu,_
> 
> Oncle _Denis._

* 

> Master DOMINIC HOWARD to Monsieur DENIS AUBERTIN
> 
> 31st October 1891, Islington, London
> 
> _My most_ admirable _uncle,_
> 
> _Truly, I am thankful for your charitable observation of my poor, wayward existence. I am sure, were it not for your intervention, I would be a lost cause, tossed out into this cruelest of worlds without a penny to my name. Oh, truly, this letter of yours is heaven-sent! You contact me at the darkest of hours; I found my life aimless and bleak, until you spoke to me of the euphoric bliss of insurance firms. God bless you, dear uncle, for that highest of joys._
> 
> _That said, dear uncle, I am doing adequately well at present. The mere mansion I often have to myself, as Mother is so busy during the day, is an ample playground. I am far from lonely. There are so many friendly people in London, so many eager smiling faces. Just this morning I had a young visitor ease my longing for human affection. Lovely chap, he was. I’m sure you would have loved him, uncle. He quite strikes me as_ your type _._
> 
> _I will perhaps contact you about that apprenticeship, but I do love it here in London, and all I can remember from my trip to Paris as a child is the dreadful smell, and I do not think I could abide that again. It makes one quite nauseous. Tell me, dear oncle, is it all of Paris which reeks so, or just your house? And as for the army - well, let me simply say I do not think I could be trusted around all of that_ artillery _, and all of those soldiers. Heavens! What would become of me, in the company of such deliquents?_
> 
> _I have enclosed your reply, I took the time to mark your grammatical errors. I am sure you would have done the same, lest I reply to you in French. And simply, I do not understand what you mean about my lack of skill in French. I simply hope that you_ truly _understand my English in this letter._
> 
> _It gives me the utmost pleasure to be your_ dearest _nephew. Let it not be forgotten that I am your_ only _nephew, after all._
> 
> _Dominic._

Mathieu finishes reading the letters with wide eyes, marveling at how the English language looks written on paper, and in the hand of an Englishman himself! He had almost forgotten that a life existed outside of this brothel. He can hardly remember the last time he went outside; save for going to church. Even then, it was hardly pleasant, what with most of the congregation giving Mathieu and his colleagues the most beseeching of looks.

Remembering the letters in his hands, Mathieu reads them once more, letting the English sink into his brain and stealing glances at the door to their bedroom. The other ladies seemed to be working late tonight, as they often tended to do. Mathieu could not contain the snort of laughter which struck him upon reading the second half of Aubertin’s letter. Him! An insurance broker! And to put down that Englishman like that; it served Aubertin absolutely right to have received such a reply! The seal had been broken so he had evidently read it; perhaps he did not care to reply directly to the Englishman’s letter, or had he enjoyed it so much that he had taken a draft of it? No, Mathieu thinks as he shakes his head, that idea is preposterous.

Mathieu’s eyes alight on one short phrase in particular, just as Cécile shuts the door behind her. “ _Coucou_ ,” she breathes, and Mathieu’s head snaps up. He subtly stuffs the letters back into the envelope, pressing them down the side of his bed and into the pages of his beloved journal. “Have you finished for the day?”

Mathieu gestures at his stained white undershirt and Cécile blushes, shaking her head as if to admit she had been foolish. “Did you not wish to stay downstairs and socialise?”

“You know that sitting and speaking to clients is hardly socialising. Aubertin thinly veils it as that, but all it is is acting, advertising, selling. I do not wish to be a part of that.”

“Mathieu, none of us wished to be a part of this game,” Cécile says with a touch of exasperation in her voice. She sits daintily at the end of Mathieu’s bed, in a beautiful dress. Her corset has been laced tightly, and Mathieu’s eyes are drawn immediately towards her breasts. “Are you even listening to me?”

Mathieu looks into her eyes, with the face of a child who has just been scorned for stealing a croissant from the boulangerie. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Her shocked expression softens, and she places a hand on Matthew’s knee, as he sits cross-legged at the top of his bed.

“When was your last female client?” she asks, her thumb beginning to rub circles into the skin of his knee, revealed just below the cuff of his breeches.

“Three weeks, perhaps,” he says with a quiet sigh. “The times have changed, rich young women have no need for a runt like me.”

“Don’t say that!” Cécile says, hurt in her voice. “If I was a rich young woman, I would be at the door of this little establishment each and every day, begging for just a moment with Monsieur _Belami_.”

Mathieu laughs, albeit quietly. “That nickname is utterly ridiculous,” he says with a smile. “I have no idea how you and the other girls kept it up for that long.” He pauses, twirling one of his hands in the air. “It’s just... you know that I do thoroughly enjoy the company of men, but... the level of enjoyment is just the same for a woman. They’re more gentle, they treat me like I’m... I’m...”

Cécile leans in and presses the chastest of kisses to his lips, her hand sliding up his leg infinitesimally. Mathieu smiles into the kiss.

_To love and be loved, that’s all I want._

*

The sun is streaming through the crack in the shutters the next morning, and Mathieu rolls over clumsily, unused to having another occupant in his bed. “Cécile,” he whispers into her ear, pushing the hair out of her face. It shines gold in the sunlight. “ _Coucou_ ,” he says again, nudging her in the shoulder until she wakes. “You need to dress. If Aubertin finds out he’ll...”

The threat is enough. Cécile stumbles through the room in her bedclothes; old rags which are far too insufficient for the winter months. She rummages through her chest at the foot of her bed, slowly gathering her clothes and heading out of the bedroom, to a room they all call ‘the middle’ - _le milieu_. It is the boundary between their part of the house and the house itself; the dozen or so girls plus Mathieu have a maid who dresses them in their finery, and paints on their faces so they look appealing to the customers. When they return, however, they are left to undress themselves.

Alone in his little corner of the room - the only privacy he is afforded as the man among women - he pulls the letters from his diary once more, ripping a page from his journal and trying to desperately remember quite how to introduce himself in English.

 

> MATHIEU to Master DOMINIC HOWARD
> 
> 4th November 1891, Montmartre, Paris
> 
> _Dear Mr. Howard,_
> 
> _I understand you will not have heard of me before , and likely will have little idea of who I might be. Alas, I must apologise for my poor grip of the English language, I am French through and through and beg that you forgive me of any errors._
> 
> _But it just so happens that I intercepted your letter to my employer, Monsieur Aubertin, who I understand is your uncle. I am highly fond of him, yet---_

 

“ _Mon dieu!_ ” one of the girls in the room cries, and Mathieu’s head snaps up from his work. He presses it all under his pillow as Cécile stands in the doorway, stark naked and trembling. Her left cheek is bright red. Mathieu hurries over to her.

“ _Coucou_ , what happened?” he exclaims, as the other girls find her something to cover herself with. She is crying, and it breaks Mathieu’s heart.

“Aubertin,” she sobs. “He was there, in _le milieu_. I was going to draw myself a bath, but he shouted that I should have no need of one in the morning. I told him that Aunt Rose had arrived, you understand,” she nods towards the girls, who all return the gesture. Mathieu has lived with them long enough to understand the rather feminine euphemism. “He... he asked to see. He could tell I was lying.”

Mathieu turns his nose up as the other girls squawk. “He asked to see?” one of them cries, exasperated.

“He stripped me bare, and asked his manservant to hold me stil as he looked. He found no blood. Instead... he found...”

Cécile looks at Mathieu, and his heart sank. He opens his mouth but no words come out.

“I tried to tell him it was from the gentleman last night, but he just... Mathieu, I’m so sorry,” she whispers as she begins to cry again. He clenches his fists and is about to push past her until they all stop him.

“Don’t be daft,” one of the older girls says, pushing Mathieu backwards. You go out there alone and you’ll be killed. But if Aubertin comes in here, with all of us around...”

Mathieu understands. “I need some time alone,” he says, pressing a kiss to the back of Cécile’s hand before retiring to his bed. Someone needs to know about this monster. And Mathieu knows exactly where to start. He takes up his pen, and scrawls out the last line he wrote.

 

> _\---I am feeling particularly embittered towards him at present, so I find it most necessary to mention to you that he is not a broker as he claims to be. He runs a brothel in the 18ème arrondissement, in which I am one of many miserable courtesans. You may tell your mother if you wish. I think he deserves to be disciplined for keeping her so ignorant of the truth, not to mention you yourself._
> 
> _Just this morning a colleague of mine has been attacked, I am sure you will be distressed to know, purely for spending the night with myself in her free time. Granted, it was not my wisest of decisions to submit to her, but - I can infer from your letter - you yourself are no stranger to such temptations, are you not? I hope for your sake that Aubertin is not so insightful in his reading as I am. The temptation of someone who is not paying you for your services is too much to resist; especially when they are as young as I am. Tell me, Sir, how many years have you shared with me in this world of misery? Myself, I have 21 years, and I have spent the last six of those pleasuring men and women other than myself. You sound like you live a life much more enjoyable than mine, and if you cannot find time to reply to my pitiful little ditty, I shan’t hold it against you. I hardly expect a man of leisure like yourself to bother with a nobody such as myself. Think of this rather as a confession, a simple plea for recognition in this great and terrifying world. Although, if you are feeling good-natured today, perhaps I can tell you more of my adventures in Paris._
> 
> _I do hope I might write to you again, stranger._
> 
> _Mathieu._


	3. Chapter 3

> Master DOMINIC HOWARD to MATHIEU
> 
> 8th November 1891, Islington, London
> 
> _ Dearest Mathieu, _
> 
> _ It certainly is curious to hear about my uncle - can it really be true, he is just as mired in depravity as I? That is amusing. I hope you aren’t lying. Maybe, if he proceeds to patronise me further in future, I will tell Mother. I thank you, Mathieu, for this most compromising information. I am not versed in blackmail, surprisingly, but I will try to do you proud when it comes to defaming Mother’s prized brother. _
> 
> _ Mathieu is your name, you say- I must ask, is that really your only name? Is there no title, no surname to be paired with it? How intriguing. I think perhaps you are a different calibre of company than I usually associate with. You see, lecherous though I am, I find little joy in whorehouses. Seduction is my preferred hobby. To have it all served up on a plate is unappealing; perhaps you can liken me to a hunter, then. That is not to say I am not curious about your profession, though; do tell me, what is it like, to be paid for acts of the flesh? I should imagine I would like that very much. I almost envy you, were you not constantly overshadowed by my monstrous uncle. I look nothing like him, it will reassure you to know. _
> 
> _ To answer your question, I am twenty-three years of age in four weeks. Older than you, yes - and my Mother would say, too old. Too old to still be languishing in her house, too old to still be a bachelor… My God, it is tiresome. One of these days I might find a place of my own, if only to escape her ceaseless nagging. The poor woman is as yet unaware of my deviances (for I get up to all kinds of mischief when she is out of the way!), and seems still convinced that I am her darling angel boy, sadly still under her wing. When I cast my mind back now I can barely even remember a time when I would have deemed myself innocent. _
> 
> _ Do tell me, if you can find the time to reply - is my uncle still as unpleasant as my memory tells me? From this abuse of your poor colleague, I would assume so. He has always been a reptile, as far as my mother’s stories of their childhood tell me. When he was just eight he used to pull her hair, because she was my grandmother’s favourite, and rip her wooden dolls limb from limb. I see he must still have those violent complexes. _
> 
> _ I must go now, Mathieu, I am afraid. My darling mother is calling. I do hope you find yourself more fortunate in future, and that we may speak again. _
> 
> _ Dominic _
> 
> _ x _

 

“Dominic, darling! Do come down!”

Isabelle Howard’s voice rings through the spacious halls of the manor house in Islington. Dominic shudders to hear it, the single kiss characteristic of his writing (to friends, at least) slightly disfigured by a jolt of his hand. He curses under his breath, shoves the chair aside, and quietly stuffs his latest letter into an envelope, slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He reminds himself once more to have it sent first thing in the morning.

“Coming, Mother.”

When he reaches the dining room, it is prepared for supper; only a few candles illuminate the room, with a greyish bowl of soup perched on a plate for him at the near end of the table. At the opposite end of the colossal surface, seemingly miles from him, sits his mother; middle-aged, greying and birdlike, staring down her nose at him, a sharp thin nose which he himself shares.

“How did you spend today?” Isabella asks, looking down her nose towards her food.

He bit his lip minutely. “Oh. Mostly reading, Mother.”

“You are so fond of books, aren’t you?”

He nods nervously. It goes without saying that he is not even remotely close to having read anything that day, except the mysterious letter which arrived that morning. He assumed it would be an equally venomous reply from his uncle, but upon opening it had discovered such delicate handwriting, such an endearing correspondent … what a pleasant surprise that had been! Of course it put him in a splendid mood and made him quite enthusiastic to share his excitement with the new young cook downstairs. She was ecstatic, quite literally.

“Which book was it this time, Dominic. I highly recommend _Les liaisons dangereuses_ , especially in the original French. I feel it might teach you a lesson or two.”

“Mother, my French isn’t of a high enough standard.”

“Perhaps then it is high time that you raised it to that standard, _mon petit_ ,” she says with a sweet smile that mismatches her scathing tone.

Dominic grumbles, if only for himself to hear, and takes a sip of the pallid soup. It tastes faintly of onions, or some other equally dull vegetable. He wonders whether it is up to its normal standard. Then again, he cannot blame the cook for being distracted.

“I’ve heard that book is quite obscene, Mother. Not to my tastes at all.” He murmurs.

“Quite the contrary. It’s rather revelatory. In any case, you always have to be careful when you choose your next book,” she says, refusing to meet his eyes as she stirs her soup, disinterested. “It has to be stimulating and one that will stay with you for a long time. Short novels of little moral value are simply not worth the effort,” she says, her spoon clanging against the plate as she drops it. Immediately, one of the servants - perhaps the boy Dominic had ravished, he can’t quite remember his face - goes to take it away. Dominic silently remarks that the room is much hotter than it should be.

“This soup is quite disgusting. Is this the work of the new cook?”

Dominic cannot help but smirk. “I believe so, Mother.”

“Charles, bring her out.”

_Charles!_ Dominic’s mind exclaims, and he just refrains from snapping his fingers in delight. _That was that wretched boy’s name_. His glee soon fades though as the cook is brought out, and he tries his hardest to keep a straight face. His eyes give him away though, as they always do.

“Rosalind,” Isabella says, and the cook keeps her eyes trained on the floor. “This soup is absolutely inedible. Tell me, do you not enjoy working in the Howard household?”

“No, Ma’am , I truly enjoy working here, I... I...”

“Tell me child, do you enjoy working here because you are in a position _much_ higher than your worth? Or because you find my son attractive and are conspiring to do unspeakable things with him. Or, _perhaps_ , you already have.”

The girl is red from head to toe, stuttering. “N-no, Ma’am, I would never-!”

“Then why are you blushing, child? If you were innocent there would be no need to panic. Dominic?” She turns her eyes on him, and he shudders. “Tell me the truth, now, you insolent boy. Have you done anything inappropriate with this girl?”

“Oh, Mother, come on, you know I wouldn’t-”

“Really, Dominic? Is that so?” She sneers. “Do you take me for some kind of idiot? Do you really think that I believe you do nothing but read all day? You, who might be the laziest young man I have ever known! As if you would ever devote your time to something worthwhile.”

She snatches Rosalind’s arm, marching her over to her son, the poor girl all but in tears. “Perhaps I would even tolerate your wanton behaviour,” She lectures him, “If you would not taunt me by doing it in my own house! Why are you still here, like some overgrown fledgling bird, still relying on me to support your wayward existence? Look - even Denis. He was a greedy, violent child, and even he has found his way in the world. What about you, Dominic? Are you just going to nest here and ravish my employees until you die?”

Dominic bites back a remark about his uncle’s ‘way in the world’, and stares at his feet. His mother is sadly very correct in her assumptions. He does not like to dwell on the fact that he has no prospects for the future besides his current exploits, and now he has been made to face it. The girl’s weeping is all but a confession. His mother may as well have seen the very scene of depravity itself, for those teary eyes are like windows into the afternoon’s activities.

He sighs, rubbing his face with one hand. “We may have… talked.”

His mother is right in front of him, now, and he cannot escape her glare. “If your definition of talking includes derobing her and putting your prick--”

“ _Mother!_ ” Dominic shouts. “Yes, I may be depraved. Yes, I may be a disappointment to you. But as of this current moment _I_ am the man of the house and I will not have a _woman shame me_ in front of the staff!” he says, angered and bitter, sweeping an arm across the five or so servants in the room, including poor Rosalind. He pushes his mother aside as he makes to leave the room. “This conversation is finished. Good night, Mother,” he says with venom in his tone.

*

By Mathieu’s very nature as a male courtesan, he seems to attract the strangest of clients. And as he lies on his back, red corset tight around his torso and stockinged legs high up in the air, he realises this man may be one of the very strangest. Again and again he is thrust into, and he finds that today, it’s relatively pleasurable. He’s not even having to pretend that he’s enjoying it, in truth, but he acts a little so he doesn’t quite give himself away. Mathieu is reserving his very core, his very personal reactions and noises for the moment when he lies with his special someone for the first time.

It had been difficult accommodating for this client’s needs. The request wasn’t a new one, but startled Mathieu a little when it crept between a pair of quivering, nervous lips, from a man he would never have expected such ideas from, but Mathieu had learnt to be open-minded a long time ago. One couldn’t turn people down when one’s livelihood depended on their satisfaction. He had borrowed the corset from one of the girls; it was remarkable that it fit him at all, and Cécile, who had laughed at the idea at first, had helped him tie it up. All those bows and frills were terribly confusing for him.

The man finishes and pulls out, asking Matthew to pull the red silk briefs back up over his erection. His client hums as he sees it straining against the fabric, before kissing him softly on his lips, thanking him and leaving the room to go and pay Aubertin. Mathieu always expected to be left unsatisfied, so this did not come to him as a surprise.

Aubertin entering the room immediately after the client had left, though, was an entirely different matter.

“Mathieu,” he says, and the smaller man shivers as he stands up to address his master. He would be punished, otherwise. “I have decided on a punishment for your mischief the other day. Bring in Cécile,” he calls over his shoulder. Cécile is pushed into the room, wearing her finery and looking almost as if she could be the rich young woman she had told Mathieu of only days ago.

“Normally, I would treat adultery with the _eye for an eye_ ethic. I would castrate you.” Mathieu winces, not only at the tone but at the very thought of it. “However,” Aubertin continues, pacing up and down the room. “Your genitalia earns me money, so it would be very counterproductive of me to do such a thing. Instead, I am rationing your meals. You will still attend them with the rest of the specialises, but you will not eat. Instead, Cécile will be receiving your portion, for every five out of six meals, and you will watch her eat every single bite. There will be no sharing, there will be no stealing, there will be no leaving of this establishment. The rest of the household will know of your crime and you will certainly suffer for your sins until I am satisfied that you are truly sorry. Have I made myself clear?”

Cécile says nothing; she can only meet Mathieu’s eyes tearily, wringing her hands. He would give anything to tell her it is not her fault, and that he forgives her, and that it would actually do her good to eat a little more, but to do so in the presence of their employer would only make things worse.

“Yes, _Monsieur_ ,” He bows his head. Aubertin gives a surly nod of approval, turning from the room, not without an aggressive pat on Cécile’s back which is a little too close to her rear for Mathieu’s liking. As soon as he leaves the room, Cécile flies to her colleague’s arms.

“Mathieu, _coucou, mon amour, je_ \--” Cécile’s words are muffled as Mathieu holds her tight. She sobs once, before wriggling free of his embrace. “We will get through this. I’ll sneak some of my food, or, God save us, if I have to I’ll keep some in the back of my mouth, and you can--”

“Cécile, for Heaven’s sake, don’t be ridiculous.” He murmurs into her hair. “I wouldn’t want you to get into any more trouble. And besides, a little more to eat might do you good.”

“But... but you’ll starve, Mathieu. Surely Aubertin won’t let you _die_ , will he?!” Cécile cries.

Mathieu gives a small dry laugh. “No, I hardly think he would let that happen to any of his precious investments. I suppose I’ll have to hope the clients prefer someone on the slimmer side.” He looks down at the stockings, pulling at one, watching it spring back into place. Perhaps, he thinks, it will be easier to squeeze into such ridiculous outfits.

“Even then, _ma chérie_ ,” he whispers lowly. “God would pity me if He allowed me to die.”

Cécile gasps lowly, drawing Mathieu back into her embrace. She places her hands on either side of his face, peppering his cheeks with kisses. “ _Coucou_ ,” she murmurs, “don’t say that. God loves you and every one of His children.”

Mathieu sighs, lying back on the bed, finally untying the constrictive corset and tossing it aside. The seams are emblazoned onto his ribcage as he breathes, enjoying the new freedom. “Didn’t you hear Aubertin, Cécile? I’m not allowed to leave the establishment. I can’t  go to mass anymore.”

“I’m sure God will forgive you and love you just the same,” Cécile says, her voice wavering as they are both silently aware that no God would love wretches who sell their bodies for pleasure. “I’ll pray on your behalf, if you would like.”

“I would appreciate that, Cécile.”

At that moment, there is a knock at the door; peeping in to make sure she is not intruding on anything, the mouselike maid Elise steps in, a small, inquisitive smile beaming at Mathieu from the door.

“Mathieu?” she calls softly.  The man in question sits bolt upright, eyes wide as a child’s. Before she can even tell him, he spots the white envelope so clean and neat in her hand, and leaps up from the bed. Cécile watches in wonder as he almost dances to the door, and cannot help but snigger at his stockings.

“Is - Is that for me, Elise?” He cries, dumbfounded. _It cannot be_ , he wonders. _And here I was, pitying myself! Surely I am amongst the luckiest of men today, to have a blessing like this!_

Elise nods, and Mathieu greets her with a kiss on each cheek. Cécile looks on with her arms crossed against her bosom. He takes the letter from the maid’s hands, thanking her again as she slips from the room.

“Who was that?” Cécile asks in a flat tone. “And what is _that_?”

“Oh - that was Elise. I do have other friends, you know,” he chuckles, eliciting a frown from his accomplice. He brushes it off - he knows she will end her sulking eventually, as she always does. “This,” he says, lifting the letter, “is from a man in London - Aubertin’s nephew.”

Cécile stops her pouting and meets Mathieu’s eyes. “Aubertin has a _nephew_? In _London_?” Her French accent didn’t quite do the English name justice. “You’re dead if he finds out you’re corresponding with him,” she warns, but then she changes her tune. “What’s he like?”

He smiles. He knew her love for gossip would get in the way of any chastisement. “His name is Dominic,” he begins. “And - well, I don’t know much else, other than he’s his sister’s son, and he seems rather... well, promiscuous.” He giggles. “And sarcastic.”

“Sounds like you’ll get on like a house on fire,” Cécile says with a wicked little smile on her lips. “You should tell him all about your encounter today,” she says, gesturing to his stockings and corset as she turns to leave the room. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”


	4. Chapter 4

> MATHIEU to Master DOMINIC HOWARD
> 
> 11th November 1891, Montmartre, Paris
> 
> _ Cher Dominic, _
> 
> _ You are very welcome to the truth. If there is anything I can do to redeem myself in this life of sin, it is to be honest. It is something I pride myself on, and the other women here appreciate it too (you see, I am the only man. I do crave male companionship sometimes, so I thank you greatly for your consistent correspondance). They gave me the ‘surnom’ of bel ami - in French, it means ‘beautiful friend’. There is an English surname like that, is there not? Alas, I am not awarded the title of Monsieur, as I have no family to inherit the title from. If I were to ever marry I would reinherit it, one supposes, but that becomes less and less likely with each passing year. _
> 
> _ You seem quite interested in my work Monsieur Howard ! I shall tell you a little tale of my client from this very morning. One of my shyest clients, male nonetheless, asked of me to dress in a crimson corset and scarlet stockings. Now, I have dressed in can-can dresses and the like before for my clients, but a corset, stockings and silk briefs were an entirely new experience ! The briefs fit snugly on my hips but were so tight in other places that... well, it was a struggle. Pardon me if I am being too crude ! Yet, the image must have been pleasing to my client, a regular of mine, because he had never ravished me quicker! I was left aching afterwards, you must understand that I am rarely satisfied in my line of work, yet my satisfaction came in the form of a smirk upon my lips, I was quite pleased ! _
> 
> _ Dear me, I got quite giddy writing that. Forgive me if I have overstepped a mark, but I presume that you may have some sordid tales of your own you wish to share, if it please you. You seem quite desperate to assure me not only do you not resemble Aubertin in character, but in appearance too... are you trying to inform me that you are indeed quite attractive, Monsieur Howard? _
> 
> _ Yes, I do lead a life of depravity but unlike you it is not a conscious decision of mine. I wish sometimes I could be innocent, and seduce someone of my own accord and, Heavens above, if I could court someone ! Yet I must not waste my time on such childish dreams as they will never happen in my lifetime. I am being punished simply for spending one night with my darling Cécile, who I love as a friend and nothing more ! It was a slip of my conscience, an escape from reality ! Aubertin is depriving me of five out of every six meals, and I fear that with winter approaching, I may not last it through the season if the punishment ensues. I am on my very best behaviour, aside from these letters, which a sweet maid is delivering to me and posting on my behalf in secret. God bless those people who seek to help those in need! _
> 
> _ Adieu, my dear friend. Your presence in my life is already much appreciated, and I permit myself a smile every time I receive one of your letters. _
> 
> _ Mathieu _

“Are you sure I should write a kiss?” Mathieu turns to Cécile frantically. “I mean - what if he thinks-”

“Thinks what? That you’re easy?” she spits. “You’re a whore, Mathieu.”

He shrugs his shoulders. He supposes it is only polite, anyway, and adds a small neat cross beside his name.

> _ Mathieu x _

“Like that?” he asks, turning to his best friend, sitting next to him on his bed.

“Looks great,” she says with a smile. Mathieu folds the letter and puts it into his pocket, ready to give to Elise at dinner time. He remembers the smell of bread for a second, and his stomach growls like a wolf. He whimpers.

“Only two more days to go,” he says with a sad smile on his face. “If I’d known, I would’ve eaten more at lunch time, but I knew I had that client and I--”

Cécile wraps him up in a hug, but it doesn’t have the same kind of comfort as it once used to hold. He wishes for a moment that he could have Dominic’s reply instantly, so he could begin writing again.

He wishes for a moment that Dominic was here in person, then he realises how ridiculous that sounds. Hopeless though the dream may be, he closes his eyes in Cécile’s embrace, and tries to picture the face that would take in his letter in only a matter of days. Twenty-three? And so popular amongst suitors? He must be handsome, Mathieu thinks with a smile. Maybe his hair is the soft blonde Aubertin’s was when he was a younger man, before it faded into its haggard grey. The face he pictures is nondescript and vague, undefined by any hard features, but he loves it all the same. A beloved ghost.

“What are you smirking at, _coucou_?”

Matt wakes from the little dream. “Hm? Oh, nothing.” He makes to stand, but her arms restrain him. She giggles like a schoolgirl.

“Come on, you can tell me,” she urges him gently, taking a small tug of his wrist.

“I told you, Cécile, it’s nothing. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”

She sniggers. “Oh, Mathieu,” she sighs amusedly, in a voice the very sound of an opening flower. “You _like_ him, don’t you?”

His eyes bulge. “No!” He cries, the paleness of his face clouding rapidly with red. “I mean, I like him, of course, Cécile, but not….I mean…”

“Your babbling speaks volumes, _coucou_.”

Grumbling at her, he turns away, brushing her clinging arms away like vines. She sniggers again behind his back. It has always been something of a nuisance, he broods, that Cécile is able to read him like a book. Fumbling under the bed, he retrieves his journal, flicking through to the next blank page.

“Away with you, Cécile, I want to do my writing. _En privé_.”

> 11th November 1891
> 
> _ Cher Journal, _
> 
> _ I find I must tell you of the many developments which have taken place in my life since our last communication. I have had a strange mixed bag of fortunes of late, it is true; pain and pleasure all mixed into one have suddenly swept into my static existence and I am really quite flustered by the speed of its intrusion. Aubertin has worsened, I am sorry to say, in his torments. Not only is poor Cécile being constantly eyed by that gruesome fellow, her privacy entirely stripped of her, but I too have suffered at his grimy hands. I cannot leave, even for my regular visits to church (oh, how it shall drain my soul, to be separate from my only virtue !) but my food has been rationed, and though I am hardly cumbersome now I fear I shall waste away into naught but skin and bones. _
> 
> _ Do not despair, cher Journal, for I shall survive on the one nutrition I have an endless supply of; Hope, my dearest friend, has never deserted me, even in hours far darker than this. I do not know where I acquired my relentless talent for its acquisition, and it may be foolish, I know, but I dare not question it, for undoubtedly it is the only reason I have survived thus far. After discovering a letter in Le Milieu, I have set up a friendly correspondence with some new, distant ally: Aubertin’s very nephew, would you believe ! He seems a lively and entertaining fellow indeed. All the hope in me has been freshly renewed by his indirect company. I think, perhaps, we may be - oh, how is it in English? Kindred spirits ? Yes, that is the saying. _
> 
> _ Cécile already teases me for my newfound affection for him; she ridicules me constantly, ‘You have never seen his face, Mathieu ! How can you be so preoccupied ? He could be just the same lizard as his uncle, for all you know !’ I suppose it is silly. Oh, but cher Journal, it makes me so peaceful and content to think of him. Do you think, one day, we will ever meet ? I relish the possibility. I do not care what callous names Cécile calls me for it. I treasure this love within me like a diamond and without an ounce of shame. _
> 
> _ Good afternoon, cher Journal. I do hope my fortunes will outweigh my sufferings by the time we next speak. _
> 
> _ Mathieu x _

*

Mathieu’s letter arrives at roughly midday. Dominic can hardly wait to read it, alas he must attend to the business of the house, with Mister Howard away serving with the Army. The simply addressed envelope sits at the bottom of the pile, as Dominic saves it as a treat for the end of his tedious tasks. Every now and then he pauses, wondering what the letter contains, and how Mathieu had reacted to his forthrightness in their first true correspondance. He hopes Mathieu likes him.

He realises he is thinking about the courtesan a lot during the day, and catches himself smiling out onto the busy Londonian street below. Finally, after supper, it is time to sit down and read the letter, and it only serves to make his grin even wider.

An hour or so later, Dominic lies naked on his bed, skin still clammy after one of the hottest baths he has ever taken. The fire is roaring in the fireplace, much needed on a cold November night like this one, and he finds his thoughts wondering now that his manservant has left him alone for the evening.

In his right hand he holds Mathieu’s letter. With his left hand he ghosts his fingers up and down his torso, as he reads the words again and again. Crimson corset and scarlet stockings. My God, the image was intoxicating! Just the sight of those words had been enough to send his body whirling helplessly into a vortex of desire. Even faceless and voiceless his mirage of a lover far surpasses any of the encounters he has endured this week.

He imagines the man as a wiry young thing,and that makes Dominic bite his lip as the fingers of his left hand just touch his prick. He’d have to be thin, of course, to fit into those corsets and dresses he mentioned. A low whine escapes Dominic’s throat at the thought of this, at the thought of the male body and one of the many things he loves about the female body combined. He feels himself stiffen, as he pictures stockings drawn up over long, lean legs and collarbones sitting high above the corset.

He tries to picture Mathieu’s face, though, and he fails. The man has not once mentioned what he looks like. Dominic vows to rectify it when he replies to the letter in the morning.

He screws his eyes shut, and rolls over onto his front, propped up on his elbows and knees with the letter still clasped in his right hand. He can almost hear the laboured breathing of a body beneath him, if he concentrates. The feel of perspirating limbs drawing him close. He squeezes the letter in his fist, crumpling and distorting it.

But he simply cannot picture Mathieu’s face, and that begins to take its toll on the eroticism of it all. Why does that trouble him now? It has never been a problem before. In fact, he often prefers his lovers (God - he detests that word) to face away from him, for to look into their eyes is frequently off-putting, and he feels it sacrifices the appeal. But now he cannot reach completion without a glimpse of those eyes, those eyes which are like a myth to him. As he drives his face into the sheets he sees nothing but blackness in the caves of his mind.

After another three or so minutes of desperate fondling, Dominic grunts loudly and gives up, rolling onto his back and staring at the high ceiling. This has never happened to him before. What if he’s getting old? The thought makes his blood curdle. Another few minutes of self-pity are enough for him to regain his composure, and as thus dresses for bed, wondering why on earth he can only glimpse Mathieu’s face with each blink of his eyelids.

And as he falls asleep, still feverish with his lack of release, a faceless angel swims through his dreams.

Dominic awakes the following morning, chasing a dream as it fades from his memory. It leaves a taste on his tongue and shivers running down his spine. All he remembers though is Mathieu, and the feeling is not an unpleasant one upon this discovery. He rises and instantly sets himself down at his bureau, smoothing out a new sheet of paper and unscrewing the ball which was Mathieu’s previous letter.

> Master DOMINIC HOWARD to MATHIEU
> 
> 15th November 1891, Islington, London
> 
> _ Dear Mathieu (if I may please call you ‘Belami’; I am quite accustomed to including a surname, and I am particularly fond of it), _
> 
> _ Last night I touched myself and thought of you. I will not deny it or dance around the fact. I do hope you will forgive me for my positively beastly behaviour, but truth be told, I could not help myself. Alas, I am only human. The image of you in your feminine finery was far too enticing an image to suppress the wave of desire it triggered. I hope you don’t mind. I did mean it more as a compliment than anything else, you must understand. _
> 
> _ However, I feel quite ghastly as I could not quite pay you the tribute you deserve, for your letters have lacked one fine detail on which I would love to linger: your very appearance. It is quite difficult for a man to worship a body with no face, no definition! It is as if you are a ghost, falling through my fingers each time I try to touch you. Pray tell, are you even real?! A male courtesan, French nonetheless. It is as if you have been conjured from the most depraved, yet most longing, corners of my mind. _
> 
> _ Perhaps, because you are all of these things the most wicked part of me desires, that the most innocent part of me will finally become sated, with someone to hold all of my affections against. You have cast quite the spell on me, it appears. It is rare that I should become so enamoured of someone whose physical body I have never laid eyes upon - you should think yourself lucky. _
> 
> _ I am sad to hear that Aubertin’s mistreatment has worsened. Remember though, my dearest friend, that I still retain the necessary information with which to blackmail him; one word, and I shall punish him for a change. The cheek that he would dare hurt my prized correspondent! It shan’t happen again, I assure you. _
> 
> _ My best wishes and loving thoughts are with you, _
> 
> _ Dominic _
> 
> _xx_


	5. Chapter 5

“ _Plus vite, Mathieu!_ ”

Mathieu screws his eyes shut as he thrusts into the woman faster, but it’s not doing much good. He has her bent over the back of a chaise-longue, just as she had requested when she met Mathieu for the first time, and Mathieu always set out to please his customers. His customers pleasing him, though, was another story.

The woman was easily twice his age, with her hair greying at the crown of her head and young wrinkles beginning to caress her body. She had demanded earlier that he touch her all over, and he had to, very wrongly, pretend that she was Cécile so that he could complete that task. Now, with a true fear of becoming limp inside the woman, he imagines Cécile below him once more, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders to touch the cushions of the chaise-longue, and soft voice calling out for him with every stroke. He bites his lip.

The woman below him finishes with some kind of pained cry, but seems content enough. Mathieu, happy that the ordeal is complete, pulls out quickly and begins to dress himself soon after. He cannot wait for her to do the same; the sight of those sagging, pendulous breasts is nauseating.

A bell rings from somewhere in the house, signifying the start of dinnertime; Mathieu’s stomach growls habitually, wrongly anticipating the meal. With a groan, he leaves his client to see to dressing herself; even if he will not be blessed with food, he must still attend, under Aubertin’s orders, to watch Cécile eat his share. What hurts him more than hunger is watching her; she always looks so sorry. He wishes she would be grateful for the extra sustenance. He cannot bear to know that she blames herself for his own misgivings.

Downstairs, the canteen is swarming with his colleagues. Ranging from girlhood to old age, they line the tables, eyes glinting eagerly with the prospect of food. Cécile, however, cannot share in their excitement. She frowns down at her feet, hands in her lap, her hair untidy; Mathieu guesses she has just received a client. There is a space at her side, reserved perpetually for him, and with only a small sad smile he sits beside her and places his hand over the dove-white palm he loves so dearly. She looks through fronds of golden hair at him, pursing her lips. The little hand in his curls up into a fist. He has noticed that her face is slightly rounder than before. Only slightly. And there is more curvature to her figure. _She looks healthy_ , he reminds himself. _It’s good for her._

Aubertin and the dinner-maids thunder in, a great pot of stew steaming its mouthwatering aroma over the waiting diners. Mathieu cringes at the smell. He is sure Aubertin is making it more appetising than usual, just because he cannot eat it. He never remembered the meals to smell this divine. Bowls are placed in front of each person at the table, including Mathieu, yet he can feel Aubertin hovering behind him. He can look, but he must not touch. This is his punishment.

The stew is poured out, yet no one begins eating, and certainly not Mathieu. All of the workers bow their heads as Aubertin leads grace, after which the chatter swells once more as they begin to eat. Mathieu cannot even bring himself to push his bowl towards Cécile today, his mood slumping further as Aubertin, now standing opposite him on the other side of the table, looks at him darkly. Cécile’s hands - pale, trembling - remove Mathieu’s bowl from his line of sight, placing it on the other side of hers. Mathieu looks at Aubertin, then. His face is void of all emotion, his eyes having absorbed all of it. Mutual hatred is communicated perfectly within two seconds of glaring, before Aubertin looks away down the table.

Mathieu fights the urge to smile, before looking at Cécile, struggling to finish the first portion, let alone the second. His stomach rumbles, and Mathieu presses his hand against it. Over the last week, he’d seen the appearance of muscles there, which had normally always been covered by a slimmer of fat. Now, his torso was skinnier than ever, and he saw every pitying gaze his regular clients gave him. They nearly always commented that he was getting thinner, but he was not allowed to tell them why. Their judgement hurts him more than any punishment Aubertin gave him would.

He notices Elise hovering by the doorway, hands folded behind her back, and he gasps. He knows what the sly glance she gives him means. He knows exactly what she is hiding from Aubertin, tilting her body gently to conceal it as he surveys the room. All of a sudden his lack of food does not seem so barbarous.

The rest of the meal stretches on for eternities; only once the spectre of Aubertin has passed from the room can Elise find the courage to dart over to Mathieu’s side, taking the prized envelope out from its hiding-place and gently pressing it into his impatient hands. With a quick smile she slips back out, leaving Mathieu to take in his treasure.

He is allowed a half hour of repose before his next client, one which he must take a bath during. He locks himself in the _salle de bain_ , his fine clothes awaiting him at the end of the tub and the letter in his hands. As he waits for the steaming hot water to cool just a little, he tears open the envelope. A small photograph flutters down to the floor, unnoticed, as Mathieu reads the letter.

A smile creeps onto his face, unbidden, before it turns into a full blown grin. What scandal! The man, this proper Englishman of London had brought himself pleasure at the thought of Mathieu! The courtesan feels giddy, carefully sliding into the bath as he let the letter flutter to the floor. The heat enveloped his aching bones and he sighed, contentness fluttering through his veins. His mind cannot let the fact go, and Mathieu pulls himself up a little to peer over the side of the bath at the letter.

Instead, he sees the photograph. It is a portrait of a handsome man, with a smiling face and wide, cheery eyes. He’s dressed in a suit, a fine suit, and he looks absolutely divine.

Mathieu’s cock twitches when he realises who it is. He sinks back into the bath, his hand stroking himself before he even realises what he’s doing. He can’t help it, after thinking of Dominic, a man he had always imagined to be devilishly handsome and now, to have that confirmed, Lord! Mathieu didn’t quite know what to do with himself, his fingers wrapping around his cock and tugging once, then twice. It felt so good, especially in the hot water, with every current a caress against his skin. He bites his lip, and hears his name called. He’s running late.

He dives out of the bath, hearing Elise calling him from the other side of the door. He grabs his garb, bundled, and snatches both the letter and the photograph off the floor. Unlocking the door, he presses the letter and photograph back into Elise’s hands as he dresses himself in his breeches and undershirt, running to another chest for the shoes and other accessories. Elise looks shocked, but Mathieu mutters “Cécile” and she understands.

Barely dry, with a half hard cock and a dizzy, excited head, Mathieu goes to his next client. It’s one of his regulars, one of those balding ones that hardly inspire eroticism. Yet the image of Dominic is fresh in Mathieu’s mind, and as the man begins to undress Mathieu, he begins to speak.

“You’ve lost weight,” is the first thing out of his mouth, something Mathieu was expecting. He maintains his professional smile, and bats his eyelashes coquettishly. His shirt is stripped from him, and then the man begins to undo his breeches, as Mathieu strokes around his face. His client stops, and Mathieu’s breath hitches.

“I see you’ve been expecting me,” his client says, and Mathieu grins. _If only he knew._ His cock stands proud in his breeches, remembering Dominic’s words and actions and--

“Mathieu?”

“ _Oui, Monsieur Dupont_.”

“You will undress me now.”

And Mathieu does. The whole time, he pretends it is Dominic he is stripping, Dominic with the thin figure and bright eyes and cheeky grin. Mathieu is pressed face-down into the mattress, and the man above him stinks of alcohol as he holds Mathieu’s neck, but Mathieu doesn’t mind. He pretends it’s Dominic, whispering in that English accent he yearns to hear. Monsieur Dupont sinks into Mathieu, deep and without much preparation, but Mathieu takes every stroke with the image of Dominic behind his eyelids.

“ _Ouais, Monsieur_ ,” Mathieu moans, as he tends to do, but this time he means it. He yearns for the feeling of Dominic truly inside him, but he makes do and pretends that the pitiful prick currently in his arse is Master Howard’s. He wonders how big it is, how thick it is, whether it will throb inside of him--

Mathieu’s eyes flash open as he realises what is happening to his own body. He is on the brink of orgasm, something he hasn’t felt at the hand of one of his male clients for a very long time, now. He sucks in his breath, clutching at the mattress as Master Howard pounds into him, above. He wonders if his blond hair would be drenched with sweat. He hopes so.

“ _Monsieur, je viens_ ,” Mathieu gasps out, and Master Howard simply grunts in response, tightening the hand around the back of his neck, pressing him down again. Mathieu’s orgasm hits him like a bolt of lightning, and he spills his seed onto the bed, mouth pressed into the mattress.

His scream of “ _Monsieur Howard!_ ” is quite loud.

Monsieur Dupont sinks his chubby, dirty fingers into Mathieu’s hips as he rides out his orgasm, before pulling out sharply and leaving the prostitute to fall to the bed, boneless. Suddenly brought back into consciousness, Mathieu sits bolt upright; his client, with a face like thunder, is pulling his trousers back on, grumbling angrily to himself.

“Monsieur Dupont?” Mathieu addresses him shakily, creeping off the bed. “What’s the matter?”

The balding man sneers at him, jerking his shirt over his shoulders. “I didn’t pay you to say someone else’s name,” he snarls bitterly. “Some whore _you_ are. I will not be paying.”

Mathieu gasps; oh, how could he have been this foolish? Usually he is such a good actor, so sensitive to his client’s needs - what has this Englishman done to his composure?

“Oh -- no, Monsieur, I believe I said your name -”

“Do you think you can play dumb with me?! You said ‘Howard’. An English name!” Dupont growls. He pulls on his shoes and coat, and begins to head for the door.

“Please, Monsieur!” Mathieu cries. “Please - please, don’t tell my master.”

Dupont stops. He turns with a resentful grimace. “So you finally tell me the truth. That might save you from your master.” Dupont picks up his cane he left at the door. “Yet, I still refuse to pay. So perhaps you are not quite saved. Good day.”

Mathieu collapses to the bed, exhausted both by relief and despair. No, he will not be paid for today’s services. It is likely Aubertin will not be pleased. It is likely he might lose the one meal he is still lucky enough to have. But at least Aubertin will not know about Dominic. The greatest salvation is not yet lost.

*

> MATHIEU BELAMI  to Master DOMINIC HOWARD
> 
> 19th November 1891, Montmartre, Paris
> 
> _Cher Dominic,_
> 
> _ I am afraid I have a shameful story to share with you, too. Do not worry; I am not offended by your tale - in fact, I am quite flattered indeed. I only wish I had been more discreet in my admiration of you. This very afternoon I made a very dire mistake ! As I was receiving my regular client, Monsieur Dupont, I was fool enough to give into my desires after reading your letter (and seeing that handsome portrait you were generous enough to lend me !), and I may have said your name very loudly as I climaxed. Dupont, as you can guess, was not best pleased. I have not been paid for my services today, though I am lucky enough not to have been betrayed to Aubertin yet. Our secret is still safe, cher Dominic, if only for another day. _
> 
> _ Oh Dominic, what are we doing? We have been reduced to lovesick adolescents, all by a matter of a few paltry letters. It would be quite humorous, were it not so bittersweet. It pains me to read of you, and yet be so distant from you. It seems we may never be united. I do not know if this is just another desperate infatuation; you must think I live only for pleasures of the flesh, whore that I am. If I am truthful I find myself thinking of you constantly. Your letters are the sole joy in a life as miserable as mine. I do implore you, Dominic - please do not cease this correspondence now. I find myself fearing each letter of yours will be the last, and that you will tire of me. You have given me such hope, and I am sure I will be lost forever if you take it from me now. _
> 
> _ But I shall not linger on such melodramatic emotional matters for long, do not worry. You did ask so politely to know what I look like, and as I am so grateful for your presence in my life, I must of course oblige, yet of course without a dashing photograph like your own. I am thin, very thin at present, for reasons which must be obvious to you. I do not leave the establishment often and as a result I am rather pale. I am not a tall man by any means. My hair is dark brown, and often a mess. My eyes are blue. I do not wish to mention my nose or teeth, for I dislike both. But I cannot be that displeasing to the eye, as I am popular enough amongst my clients. To be quite honest I have no idea what they see in me. _
> 
> _ I have no idea what you see in me, Monsieur, if I may flatter myself with such an honour. _
> 
> _ If only I could meet you in person, Dominic, so I may lay me eyes upon your beauty in the flesh. _
> 
> _ Adieu, my dear friend, _
> 
> _ Mathieu xxx _

*

“James! Two whiskies please!”

Dominic looks at his friend sharply. “Whiskey, Thomas? Are you mad?”

Mister Kirk smirks at Dominic sharply. “In honour of my new bride, after all,” he says, picking up the glass placed in front of him. “A toast. To Linda Burrell, now Linda Kirk, the bringer of many sons and much fortune.”

Dominic laughs raucously as he clinks his glass against Thomas’, before sipping. “You remain a wicked man, Thomas. It pleases me that marriage has not yet changed you.”

“And I hope it bloody won’t!” Thomas says, laughing as he sips at his whiskey. Dominic is glad his friend had finally returned from the wedding in Scotland; he had sorely missed his dearest confidant over the last four weeks. He had much news to share. “Dominic, how have you been keeping? Truly, now that we are out of your Mother’s earshot.”

Dominic conceals a small cough under his fist. “Well,” he begins tentatively. “There is one thing-”

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten some wench pregnant?” Tom says, that smirk still sat on his lips. “Dominic, you were never a man made for children!”

A wince crosses Dominic’s faces. “Oh, dear God, no!” He spits. “Don’t speak of such morbid things, Thomas.”

“I see you haven’t changed a single bit in the last month. Are you still up to your wicked ways? How many poor innocents have been ravished by the one and only Dominic Howard in my absence? I hope you’ve been keeping up on my behalf!” Thomas says with a wink.

A gulp. Dominic does not want to admit it, but his score has rather fallen short of late. He finds himself increasingly bored with what London has to offer, aside from those two members of his household staff and one young maiden who he had taken for dinner once. Instead he has started longing for something he finds very difficult to define, and it is troubling indeed.

“Thomas,” He murmurs. “I must be very honest with you. Will you promise that you will not laugh at me?”

“Dominic, you know as well as any other man that my promises are so easily broken. But I will give you my word, dear friend.”

He prepares himself for the revelation with a deep breath.

“Thomas, I have started writing, by absolute chance, to a male courtesan in Paris. And I fear that I may have fallen quite in love with him.”

Thomas slams his glass down on the bar and bursts into laughter so loud that the other patrons turn towards them in shock. “Dominic!” he wheezes, bending forward against the bar and laughing. “My dear friend!” he says, his laughter subsiding as he sits up straight and wipes at his eyes. “What a wonderful way to joke me. Very well done. You! In love! What a dark day for London’s young and wealthy population!”

Dominic frowns at him. Thomas’ face drains of all mirth.

“That was not in jest, was it, Dominic?” he asks in a low tone. He is quite sure that he already knows the answer.

“For God’s sake, Thomas,” Dominic hisses, a hand pressed to his temples. “I try to be sincere with you - just once - “

“Forgive me, friend,” Thomas says, laying a calming hand against Dominic’s forearm. “I mean you no harm. It is just quite unexpected, is all. A man? I can understand. A courtesan, no less, I almost expect. But a Frenchman? Someone you have not shared your bed with? I am quite surprised, and I mean that as no mark on your character. I am quite the same, after all.”

Dominic sighs. “I’m ashamed of it, really,” he admits. “I mean - I don’t fall in love. I have never done such a ridiculous thing in my life. And now I’ve been stupid enough to do it with someone I’ll most likely never see in the flesh.”

“Come now, Dominic, you can’t spend your life like that! You must grip it by the horns and show it who is the most powerful! And that will be you, Dominic, for you are one of the most noble and rich men in the whole of London, if not the South.” Thomas sits up, and turns Dominic towards him, taking his now empty whiskey glass from his hands and placing it down on the bar. “You have the money. Why not go visit Paris, go see the man?”

“I would love to, Thomas, honestly,” he explains. “But he isn’t just any whore. He belongs to my own uncle’s brothel. If Denis found out that we’d -my God, Thomas, he’d kill me on the spot. From what I’ve been told he can be a ruthless villain.”

Thomas’ face lights up, the signal of an idea forming in his brain. “You have the ultimate guise then! Tell your mother you are visiting your uncle, and tell that vile man when you arrive that you have been sent by your mother! You then get to meet this man of yours, at least, and if he is that much of a villain, he surely will not kill you if you are a paying customer?” Thomas’ eyes glint with something Dominic has not seen there since before his engagement. “The path has chosen you, Dominic, you have nothing to do as it has fallen in place before your very eyes!”

Dominic settles his drink down on the table. The excitement he sees blazing in Thomas’ dark eyes is so reminiscent of how they were when they were youths, troublesome and intrepid. He knows that, despite Thomas’ penchant for ridicule, the man he has always considered his dearest friend is most certainly behind him.

“If you insist on being so passionate about it,” Dominic smirks. “I should probably let him know he’s to have a visitor.”

The conversation turns away from Dominic’s conquest to Thomas’ own; the brunet spares no time in telling Dominic every detail of his first coupling with his new wife, who had saved herself for marriage and apparently was up to Thomas’ high standard of women in the bedroom. Dominic laughs, cries and shakes his head through the tale, all with a smile on his face and the thought of the visit in his mind. After each man catching up on the news of the others’ business - Dominic with Thomas’ whiskey distribution business in the capital, and Thomas with Dominic’s father’s correspondence and his military campaigns - they decide to part ways, with Thomas absolutely insisting that Dominic enlist the help of his friend, a certain Christopher Wolstenholme, with his voyage. With a smile on his face, Dominic leaves the small public house and makes his way back to his home through the bitter cold.

A few minutes later, Dominic settles himself at his desk with a fire lit in his room. Eagerly, he begins to write.

> Master DOMINIC HOWARD to MATHIEU BELAMI
> 
> 22nd November 1891, Islington, London
> 
> _ Dear Mathieu, _
> 
> _ It pleases me beyond words that you enjoyed that photograph. I must admit, it was a last minute decision to add that in but now I am very glad you did. That situation with your client now is most unfortunate, although I admit that it aroused me somewhat, the image of you being pressed into a mattress and screaming my name in what must be that delightful French accent of yours. Excuse me, I digress. _
> 
> _ The image you have painted in my mind is a very pleasant one, and I will enjoy imagining your visage later on this evening, I am sure you understand. And yes, I am scared that I may feel the same sentiments towards you - scared, because they are entirely new and foreign to me! What a delightful yet terrifying feeling occupies my every waking moment! I have spoken at great length with a dear friend of mine tonight (unlike you, my dear, I am not intimate with Thomas as you are with your Cécile), and he has helped me reach perhaps, one of the most important decisions of my young adult life. _
> 
> _ Mathieu, my dear, I am coming to Paris. _
> 
> _ Adieu, my dear friend, my dear love, _
> 
> _Dominic xxx_


	6. Chapter 6

> Master DOMINIC HOWARD to Monsieur DENIS AUBERTIN
> 
> 23rd November 1891, Islington, London
> 
> _My beloved uncle,_
> 
> _I have some truly excellent new for you. You have asked me, countless times, to come and see you in Paris, at your reputable insurance firm, and thus far - forgive me, uncle - I have been a careless, thoughtless lout who lacks the proper manners and familial love to offer you such courtesy. I see the error of my ways so clearly now, uncle. It is true - I have languished in my mother’s house too long. It is time I saw the world and learnt its precious secrets. In a matter of months - maybe even weeks, dear uncle, you will be so ecstatic to know! - I will be gracing the steps of your establishment._
> 
> _I know, I know; you must be paralysed with joy at the thought. After all these years, your darling nephew shall return again to Paris, this time a grown man, ready to savour the delights of the city of love. But do cease in your bewildered fits of excitement for just one moment, uncle, and do me the good grace of finding a room to accommodate my stay. You are far wiser to the best places to sleep in Paris, are you not? I am certain I shall be safe in your very able hands, and in the hands of your staff, too - oh, how I cannot wait to meet your employees! They must be of such a high-calibre of cunning and intelligence to work under your scrutinous eyes._
> 
> _Farewell, dear uncle, until we shall meet again in person._
> 
> _Your loving nephew,_
> 
> _Dominic_

 

Dominic rises from his bureau, still in his nightclothes. With the more tedious of his two letters now written, he takes them both in hand and gives them to his manservant. They are both addressed to the same residence, but oh, how the contents differ! With a smile on his face, Dominic dresses himself for the day ahead, heading downstairs when breakfast is called.

“Good morning, Dominic,” his mother chimes as her son walkes into the room. Pressing a delicate kiss to her papery cheek and wishing her a good morning in return, he makes his way to the other end of the table, sitting down and eagerly accepting the cup of tea that has been poured for him. He is offered the newspaper, which he gladly takes.

“Some inspector or the other believes that he’s identified Jack the Ripper, after all these years. A load of trifle, I think,” Isabella says. Faintly, Dominic can hear the sounds of her stirring her tea. Dominic nods, folding the paper again after his mother has just summarised it all for him.

“Mother, I’m going to Paris.”

Far away, a teacup clatters loudly against a saucer. “Oh, heavens,” his mother mumbles, as Dominic watches two maids attend to her briefly. He cannot help but smirk, just a little. “P-Paris, you say, dear?”

“Yes, mother. Paris. You see, you’ve been encouraging me to  _do_  something with my life, and Uncle Denis kindly offered for me to take up some kind of work there.”

She glares at him coldly; in the pits of her pale eyes he can see she is enraged that he would decide something so rashly, and yet, she cannot say a word. It is precisely what she told him to do. He smiles inwardly.  _Oh, Mother, how the tables have turned_.

“Kind old Thomas has arranged a meeting with a certain Christopher Wolstenholme. I’ll be paying him a visit to-day to arrange my carriage,” Dominic says, not even looking at his mother as he adds milk to his tea. Breakfast is brought out, a huge affair of bacon, eggs and endless toast. Dominic greedily tucks in during the silence.

“I should’ve known Master Kirk would be involved,” his mother says loftily.

“Ah!” Dominic rushes to say, swallowing his mouthful and clearing his throat before he continues, like the good gentleman he is. “ _Mister_  Kirk, actually. Married a bonny Scot, he did.”

“At last,” Isabella grumbles, wiping a crumb of toast from her thin lips. “It was about time he settled down. He was becoming even worse than you.”

Dominic wrinkles his nose bitterly at the notion that there could be anyone worse than him.

“All the same, I’m happy for him. I do hope you’ll follow his good example, Dominic.” She stares down the elegant nose of hers, at the very same one planted on her son’s face. “I’m sure there’s a very worthy woman waiting for you somewhere on this island.”

Dominic performs a mental checklist. Not a woman, perhaps worthy but not in his mother’s way, and not on this island. A hat-trick of wrongs. He smiles. How he delights in disappointing her.

“When are you leaving, anyway?”

Dominic is somewhat irked at the impatience in her voice; he almost retorts that he is leaving immediately to swim the channel. “I should think it will be some time after New Year, Mother. A new resolution of mine.”

“Oh yes, I think it shall be a life-changing experience. I’m sure you’ll love Paris.” A slight sip of her tea later, she grins up at him again. “Oh, and darling - we have hired a new cook. I think you should like to go and see him. I  _did_  hire him for I thought he would be much to your approval.”

Dominic smirks. “Really now, Mother, I thought you had said that you could never quite comprehend my tastes?”

“Oh, Dominic. We are related, are we not?” his mother asks, a cruel tone behind her words. “Charles, bring in John, please.”

Dominic had been prepared, perhaps naively, for a lean boy, perhaps a few years younger than him. Instead, he is presented with an overweight, balding man, with a monster of a moustache and clothes that do not fit correctly. He gives a porcine snort as he scratches at his hairy arm, taking in his young master with a blackened grin.

Dominic’s eyes bulge; he tips his nose into the air in the manner which shows that he is most affronted. “Welcome to the household, John,” he said in a measured tone, barely disguising the tremble in his voice. “You prepared this morning’s breakfast?” he asks, gesturing to his empty plate.

“Y-Yes sir,” the man grunts, taking his cloth hat off and holding it in his grubby hands.

“I see my mother has chosen someone who is of my standards,” Dominic replies coolly, giving John a slightly disturbed smile. “Thank you. You may go.”

The smile slips from his lips as soon as the cook has returned to the kitchen. “What did I tell you about  _embarrassing_  me in front of the household, Mother?” he spits.

“I thought it was high time you learned a lesson, Dominic. I am sick of you debasing the Howard name by constantly sharing a bed with people of lower classes! From now on, you stick to your own class, or even higher, if anyone with any sense can stand being in your presence!”

Mrs Howard roughly pushes away from the table and makes to leave the room. Dominic springs up from his chair, meeting her at the doorway and grasping her wrist.

“Let me  _go!_ “ she argues noisily. The servants begin to come forward, but with his free hand Dominic warns them off.

“Fine, Mother,” he says in a low tone, seething. “You want me to stick to my own class? You want me to be a good gentleman? Fine. I will be calling upon Ralph Oswald today, and there is absolutely  _nothing_  you can do about it.”

His mother pales, and having elicited the reaction he wanted, Dominic lets go of her wrist. “I will not allow that. You are my  _son_ , this is my  _house_ \--”

“I am your son, yes, a fully-fledged adult who will soon be leaving this house, hopefully for good.” He walks towards the doorway, where his manservant helps him into his coat and passes him his hat. “I do hope you’ll be in a more jovial mood when I return, for I certainly will be.”

With a forced grin towards his mother’s shocked face, Dominic stepped out through the open door and onto the street below.

*

“Dominic! What a pleasant surprise! I would have called upon you this week,” Ralph cries, welcoming the visitor in with a splendorous smile. Young Master Oswald is among Dominic’s favourite companions; nobody quite reaches the dizzying heights of flamboyance and warmth which exudes from the man’s body; Dominic reckoned once that the man would bleed wine if one cut him open.

Ralph is wearing, unsurprisingly, a suit of garish burgundy garnished with a pin of splendid lilies, and a green silk cravat. Dominic cannot wait to take them off, if only so that he will not have to look at them any more. Dear God, the man looks like a clown.

“So?” Ralph clasps his hands together excitedly, taking in his visitor’s stormy face with a frown. “Whatever is the matter, Dominic? Is there anything I can do?”

Dominic looks around the parlour. “Is there anyone else here?”

“No, my dear friend, there is not.”

“Ralph, fetch us some wine, now,” He asserts choppily. As his suspicious host begins to pussyfoot towards the drinks cabinet, he adds “Oh, and take your clothes off.”

“Pardon me?!” Master Oswald expostulates. “Dominic, it’s barely ten thirty!”

“Oh, Ralph, don’t pretend you don’t know why I’m here.”

“B- but Dominic, what’s the rush?”

_You have no idea how alluring the idea of vengeance against my mother is_ , he thinks, watching that frivolous idiot fumble hopelessly with the wine, and his top button, all at once. “No rush, my friend,” Dominic says, back to the rest of the room as he eyes up a grandiose portrait above the fireplace. “I simply woke up this morning with a  _burning_  desire to have your prick inside of me.”

The room falls silent.

“Oh.”

Smiling at his little lie, Dominic turns around to face his friend, quirking an eyebrow. “Well?”

Ralph puts the still-corked wine down on the table, crossing the room quickly to take Dominic’s face into his hands, pressing an urgent kiss to his lips. Dominic moans into it, just a little. Ralph may be a blithering idiot who dresses himself in the dark, but at present he is the closest source of illicit affection, the most accessible way to have his mother frothing at the mouth with rage. He certainly is not the most talented beneath the covers and nothing compared to sweet, divine Mathieu for filling the ache in Dominic’s heart, but his face is fair enough, Dominic supposes, and he is stupid enough to fall for his flattery. Oh, and his prick is as big as his ego.

A few minutes later, Dominic finds himself with his trousers around his ankles as he grips the marble mantlepiece, moaning like the whore he yearns for as he is filled again and again. Ralph is being quite savage with him this morning, but he reminds himself that this is what he needed, what he deserved, as his own cock remains untouched between his legs. Sweat starts to bead along his back, soaking into his shirt (he’d hardly had time to remove his coat!), and Ralph is muttering away with some dribble about how good Dominic feels.

Dominic himself feels quite empty, ironically. He finds himself itching to check his watch. He cannot wait to go home and nurse his own erection with thoughts of tender Mathieu.

With a wheezing moan, Ralph finishes and Dominic smiles grimly, feeling his sticky seed inside of him. It debases him infinitely, at the same time making him feel quite superior to the rest of the population, who don’t have the honour to feel as utterly filthy as he does.

Ralph pulls out, and Dominic feels a drop of it begin to run down the inside of his leg. He allows it, for a moment, as he fights to catch his breath.

“I say,” Ralph says, and Dominic really wishes that he does not. “That was quite unexpected.”

“I could say the same,” Dominic mutters.

*

“Are you sure there are no letters today?”

“I’m certain, Mathieu,” Elise whispers, one eye on the door to Aubertin’s bureau. “Now be quiet; he’ll know we’re up to something if he sees us!”

“What is he doing in there, anyway?” He ponders. Aubertin has been in there for almost an hour now, talking quietly with someone whose voice Mathieu cannot hear. He isn’t sure who it might be; it might be one of the courtesans, but he has been busy with clients this last hour. He hasn’t much of an idea where everyone might be.

“Did you not know?” says Elise, gasping. “He is talking to Cécile.”

Mathieu draws back, with a shallow breath. “What about?”

Elise simply shrugs. Sighing pensively, he bids the maid good day and begins to return to his quarters; he will have another client in fifteen minutes, his favourite chatty Englishman, and he must be ready in time.

That is, until Cécile bursts out of Aubertin’s bureau.

“I will  _never_  marry you!” she shouts, pushing past Mathieu with force as she flees. She is crying; Mathieu can tell by the tone of her voice. He turns around, to see Aubertin standing in the doorway of his bureau.

“You heard  _nothing_ ,” he sneers at Mathieu, pointing a stubbing finger at him. “You hear me?  _Nothing!_ “ he roars, before turning and slamming the door shut. Blinking confusedly, Mathieu turns again to follow Cécile up the stairs to their quarters. He passes through le milieu to find her crying on her bed.

“ _Coucou_ , what’s wrong?” he asks immediately, sitting down beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders. She turns into him, burying her head against his chest.

“Aubertin...” she sobs, and Mathieu can simply guess. “He said... he called me in to talk about my clients, apparently,” she says, sitting up a little to look into Mathieu’s eyes. “He started saying how he wanted to become a client of mine--”

“What?!” Mathieu snaps. “That’s preposterous!”

“It gets worse,” Cécile says, and Mathieu calms but is still seething with rage towards their boss. “He said if I would not take him on willingly, he would do it by force. He said he would marry me, and that I would have to bear his children, and I just--”

“I’m going to kill that bastard,” Mathieu says, springing up from the bed. “I’m going to devise the most painful death for him, I will make sure of it!”

“Mathieu, no, don’t!-” She cries out fiercely, through her tears, restraining him by his wrist. “If you attack him, he will break your neck, Mathieu, I know it. He’s bigger and stronger than you. And if he doesn’t strike you dead he’ll leave you to starve on the street.”

“But Cécile, I can’t let him get away with - with being so - to  _you_!” He runs his fingers through his hair. His hands shake with vicious rage. “He must be doing it because it’s you, because it’s us. It’s not fair, Cécile, why is it always us!?”

“Shh,” she soothes him, pulling him down to the bed and smoothing his messied hair. “Save your rage for later, coucou. You’re running late now, look.” She points to the clock; she is right. Mathieu should be downstairs greeting his client by now. His heart aches to leave her side. Every minute spent away from her, that leech could be groping for her with his monstrous talons - ! The thought sickens him, it fills him with poison. Cécile deserves a baron, a prince for a spouse. Aubertin would be such a waste of her beauty and vivacity.

He must shake his bitterness, he wills himself to lose it as he presses his hands to his face. You must show them a beautiful face, not one ready for battle. He thanks God that he doesn’t have to have intercourse with his next client, the Englishman. God has offered him some pity, finally. He is deserving enough of some.

As always, Harold is sitting in the reception area, spectacles perched on his nose at a slight angle. He smiles warmly as he sees Mathieu approaching, and they kiss each other’s cheeks; Harold was the only customer Mathieu did this with, as he was the only one he felt close enough with to do so. He would’ve used the less formal version of the French ‘you’ as well, if he spoke French to the man at all.

Mathieu leads him silently to their preferred room, a small sitting room without a bed. Harold sits down, already blushing - Mathieu had not had the chance to change out of his deep necked shirt and breeches, for which he apologises profusely in French. Harold smiles again, before he begins to talk.

“Hello again,” he begins in his rough tongue. Mathieu smiles amiably. He is always so shy. It mellows his mood slightly to hear him - it has always been a strange source of reassurance.

“Hello, Harold,” Mathieu replies tritely. It can be very difficult to coax words out of him.

Harold coughs, clearing his throat, looking at his shoes. “I don’t know what to say,” he admits eventually, after shuffling uncomfortably on the bed for a few moments. “I just wanted to see you, as usual. I hadn’t really given it much thought - what I was going to say, I mean. I just didn’t think.”

Mathieu turns his head to the side. He likes the way Harold talks; it is much like his own way of speaking, with too many ideas struggling to be spoken at once. Wondering whether he should perhaps break this rather disconcerting silence, Mathieu has a sudden bolt of bravery.

“I can try speaking,” Mathieu says slowly in English, a language he had never spoken save for saying hello or goodbye. “I may be... slow. If it pleases you,” he added, with a smile.

Harold blinks, pushing up his glasses. “Oh,” he says, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Well... I mean, I mean yes, of course! The French do have quite a lovely inflection when they speak English, very much so. Mathieu, that would be most lovely, you may continue!” he says, a smile on his lips that Mathieu had rarely seen. He mirrors it with his own, his rumbling belly and troubles with Cécile and Aubertin currently forgotten.

“What is it that you would like me to speak?” Mathieu asks, a blush creeping across his cheeks. He has never once felt vulnerable when lying on his back with his legs in the air, yet here, fully clothed and speaking another language, he felt as helpless as an abandoned child. And he knew how that felt.

“Oh goodness, um...” Harold fiddled with his glasses as he thought. “Well, I suppose you could tell me a little about yourself, perhaps? I really know nothing about you, except for your name and your profession, I suppose. Isn’t that ghastly and unbalanced?”

Harold speaks quite quickly, which means Mathieu pauses for a couple of seconds to compose his reply. His first foray into English conversation emerges uncomfortably from between his lips.

“Yes, it is strange, is it not? In considering that we have known each other so long.”

Harold laughs, evidently feeling more at ease. “That’s not a bad start! I mean - yes. Well…How are you, anyway? I’ve spent hours telling you about my life. It’s about time I heard about yours.”

Mathieu gulps. Part of him screams to tell his client of all the cruelty he and Cécile have been subjected to. But he must restrain it.

“I am very happy at the moment, Sir. I am waiting a letter from a friend in England,” he says, quite sure that he mispronounced England, but he fights the blush creeping up his neck. “He lives in London.”

“London,” Harold says with a small smile. “It’s not a big ‘o’ sound, at the end.”

Mathieu blinks, repeating the word to himself, before he smiles. “Thank you. My English... it is all learned from you, or, more recently, the letters.”

Harold smiles. “Well, gosh! I... I thank you, Mathieu, that is quite an honour to have. And look at you! Speaking English! My word, it’s quite incredible. If this friend were to ever visit, well, he would be most impressed, wouldn’t he?”

Mathieu smiled coyly. “Perhaps, I will keep it a surprise, from him.”

“Do you know his name? Sorry - of course you know his name. But I might know him, if you tell me. I used to live in London.”

“Dominic,” Mathieu says, before clearing his throat. “Dominic ‘Oward,” he says, knowing there was something not quite right about the way in which he said it. He looks to Harold for reassurance.

“Howard?” Harold tries. Mathieu nods, blushing once more. “Remember to say your H’s in English. You Frenchmen are quite fickle about not pronouncing them. But Dominic Howard? Don’t seem to recall him. There is a Howard quite high in the Army though, from London. I think I remember him from my Army days, yes.”

Mathieu smiles dumbly when he hears Dominic’s name from an Englishman’s own lips. It sounds so perfect to him in its original tongue. He wonders, briefly, what his own name would sound like in Dominic’s voice - Oh! He cannot summon the sound of it. That saddens him somewhat. He had almost thought the mental image were complete. But the sound, the scent, the touch, it is all missing.

The rest of the hour passed quickly; it was remarkable, Mathieu thought, how much of the language he seemed to have stored within himself, without knowing! Harold was certainly appreciative, for he praised Mathieu endlessly for his effort and knowledge. Mathieu had never seen his client so pleased, so involved in their session as today.  _Perhaps I will give a little more to my clients in future, if this is how I win their hearts_. But of course, once Harold had left with a tip for his pleasure, the hatred for Aubertin set in once more. It bit at Mathieu’s insides like poison.

Elise shifted the cloud as she entered the room. Mathieu’s head snaps up and he smiles. “I have a letter for you,” she says. “It was mixed in with one for Aubertin, curiously in the same hand.”

Mathieu smiles as he takes the letter from her, ripping it open and scanning its contents. His eyes, though, linger on the final lines. “No,” he whispers, and Elise moves towards him in alarm. “It cannot be!” Mathieu says with a huge grin on his face. “He’s coming to Paris!”

“Your... Your Dominic?”

“He’s coming to Paris!” Mathieu near shouted, bounding through the house and into le milieu, before heading through to their quarters. Oh, he hadn’t felt this giddy since he was a child! “Cécile, ma cherie, Dominic’s coming to Paris!”

Cécile’s frown changed to a wide smile, leaping up from the bed to catch Mathieu’s embrace. The man was so giddy he was almost crying, and Cécile allowed herself to laugh. “You see, Mathieu? Good times are coming for us all!”

Mathieu could hardly breathe he was so dizzy! He sat down heavily on her bed, mouth agape as he read the letter again and again, committing every single word to memory. “I cannot believe it,” he said over and over, biting his lip and looking at Cécile once more. “I could never have hoped for this. With this,” he starts, waving the letter at her, “with this, it becomes real, my dear! A fraud would not have promised such a thing as this! I am filled with joy, so full that I don’t know whether to laugh or cry!”

Cécile brought Mathieu back into her arms again. “Laugh, my boy,” she says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Or cry for joy, if you must. God has seen your sorrow, and he is finally rewarding you. You are a good man, Mathieu, and you deserve good things.”


	7. Chapter 7

> MATHIEU BELAMI to Master DOMINIC HOWARD
> 
> 27th November 1891, Montmartre, Paris
> 
> _ Dear Dominic, _
> 
> _ Words cannot express my present delight! Believe me, Dominic, when I tell you that I have cried sincere tears at the news; true, sweet, joyful tears. It is to me as if a dream, an impossible destiny, has finally become reality. If you are honest - if you really do mean that you shall be here, in the flesh - then surely the happiest days of my life are before me. Oh, excuse me - my hand shakes, here, from very ecstasy. I must be careful not to mess my writing. _
> 
> _ The news that you, too, think of me in your most intimate moments (and no, I do not mean that crudely! - well, not entirely) dares me to dream of innocent, romantic love, the way I have tried to forbid myself from doing for I am certain those dreams shall never prevail. I trust you - I trust that you are being truthful, and that in confiding my very heart in you I have not been errant. I dare now to believe that a new chapter in my life is beginning, and already has begun with the receiving of your letter. This new episode shall hopefully be filled with sweeter things than its predecessors. _
> 
> _ But, enough of my childish daydreams and fevered, petulant emotions! We must make arrangements rights away, and set our future in stone before it can be lost into the ether. Tell me, now - when will you be coming, and how? Where will you be staying? And for how long, pray tell? I do hope it will be for longer than one meagre day. You cannot expect me to survive on one fleeting glimmer of happiness. Or perhaps - perhaps you will never go home! Oh, I am a fool to even think it. But my eager mind wanders to the most ridiculous places, no matter how I try to rein it in. Maybe, oh, mon dieu, you will be here for Christmas - my very first Christmas-present! _
> 
> _ Please reply as soon as you are able, mon amour. You cannot comprehend how waiting will drive me mad - how it already has done. I beg you to give me something to live for. _
> 
> _ I live in hope, mon amour. Tu me manques. _
> 
> _ Mathieu xxxx _

*

A few days later after informing Mathieu of his visit, and the visit to Ralph that he would rather now forget, a man in a somewhat patchy suit arrives on Dominic’s doorstep. His name is Christopher Wolstenholme, and he comes with the regards of Thomas Kirk, as he stands awkwardly in the hallway with his hat in his hands. Dominic slowly walks down the stairs, taking in the image of the fellow as the butler closes the front door.

Dominic can’t quite place what it is about the man, whether it’s his bright smile besides his nerves, or the way he begins to twist his wedding ring once the butler takes his hat, but Dominic finds himself taking a liking to the fellow almost immediately. Not in that way, for once, either. No, the young master of the house thinks he can fashion a friend out of this rough pebble.

“Mister Wolstenholme,” Dominic says by way of greeting, shaking the man’s hand finally. “I apologise for the cancellation of our appointment the other day. I had some business to attend to.”

Dominic omits telling Christopher about the crippling guilt he felt after visiting Ralph Oswald’s house the morning of their cancelled appointment. He doesn’t think that’s quite appropriate for their first conversation in person.

“Not to worry, Master Howard, it’s no mind at all. And please, call me Christopher, if you will,” the other man says with a smile. He is older than Dominic, and taller and broader in the shoulders, but seems somewhat intimidated. Dominic of days gone by would have relished in this fact, but the thought of someone being uncomfortable in his own home was quite off-putting.

“I will, and please, call me Dominic. Come, let us discuss this journey of mine in the sitting room.”

Dominic led Christopher out of the hallway and through the lavish yet echoing dining room, once host to huge parties but now only reminiscent of those times. Dominic glanced back to see his companion’s eyes wide with awe. If he’d had any doubts that this man did not come from money, this would certainly confirm it. Upon reaching the sitting room, Dominic made straight for the whiskey cabinet.

“Whiskey at eleven o’clock? That only leads to a man’s demise, if I may speak so boldly. That’s how my father went,” Christopher said, as Dominic continued to pour them both a small glass.

“I’m sure, my dear friend, we can make one exception, and we can toast to his very health. This is the first drink I’ve had in weeks!” Dominic said, handing a glass to an uneasy Christopher. Bound by the laws of etiquette, he could not refuse the offering, and so they both drank to the late Mister Wolstenholme’s health.

As Dominic felt the burn of the amber liquid in the back of his throat, he tried to also swallow down the lie he’d just told. Just like his shenanigans at Ralph’s house, he also neglected to mention the bottle of Glenfiddich he’d drowned his sorrows in that very night.

“Now, Christopher,” Dominic said, sitting forward in his chair, “let’s talk business. You can get me to Paris, yes?”

“Yes sir, I regularly make the trip across the channel. It’s difficult at the moment, you see. Relations are a bit...well, unsavoury at present. My business’ll make sure you don’t run into any trouble on your way.”

Dominic hums. He’s heard some ghastly tales of tourists having all manner of obstacles on their passage to France. He thanks Tom silently for recommending someone he trusts to ferry him safely to his destination.

“That certainly seems satisfactory to me,” He grins, taking a sip of his whiskey with an appeased hiss. “And you yourself will drive me there?”

Mister Wolstenholme gulps. “Well, actually, I have other men hired to do the job.”

“I insist, Christopher. You seem like a decent fellow. I’d rather pay more to have some intellectual conversation on my way.” Dominic asserts, and his visitor nods his head respectfully.

“I’ll arrange for an associate to take over whilst I am absent, Sir.”

“I will pay you more if you can be my private cabbie whilst I am in the city.”

“Absolutely - I mean, that would be most welcome. Thank you.”

“Excellent,” Dominic says, draining the rest of his whiskey from his glass. He notices that Christopher’s glass is still full. “When is the first opportunity you can take me over to Paris, then? In the New Year, of course. I wouldn’t want to separate you from your loved ones over Christmas, and I’m quite aware that Mother will want to parade me around at Mass.” Dominic’s explanation had ended with a sigh as he disinterestedly regarded his fingernails. Christopher shifted in his seat.

“Well, Sir, if you insist, I’m sure that the worst of the holiday business will be over by…” He pulls a small, black diary from his jacket pocket with a pencil, mulls over it a moment, and hums happily. “...The second of January, Mr Howard.”

Dominic represses the smile that attempts to fight its way to his lips. That was an awful lot sooner than he was expecting. “And how long does the journey take?” he asked casually, his mind already trying to work out the days separating him and Mathieu.

“Three days normally, two if we work the horses hard. Also depends on the sea conditions, you know how the sea gets at that time of year,” Christopher explained, with a warm smile on his face. Matched with the worn appearance of his attire, the bags under his eyes and the scruff of a bear along his jaw, he looked quite the family man.

“Tell me, Christopher, do you have children?”

Christopher blinks, sitting up straighter before the smile grows into a fond grin. “Yes, sir. Five. Kelly is expecting another one, Spring time maybe.” The warmth emanating from the man is enough to make Dominic himself smile, a man rumoured to have a cold heart. He never even questions the strange affection that blossoms in his chest at the thought of a serene familial home. But then, he supposes, it is something he has never really known.

“Wonderful,” Dominic says, that smile still in place. “I’ll pay you for the journey, for being my cabbie in Paris and then I’ll pay you double if you get me there faster. Oh, to hell with it, I’ll pay you triple just because it’s the season and all, and with that amount of children you’ll need all the spirit you can get.”

Christopher looks like he is either to faint or cry. “T-Thank you sir, that is so very kind of you,” he stutters, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “You must excuse me sir, I have to meet another client in a quarter hour.I’ll be in touch with journey arrangements shortly.”

Both men stand up, shaking hands before Christopher leaves the room, escorted by the butler. Dominic sinks down into the chair again, and feeling quite jovial, pours himself another whiskey. He decides one can drink alone when he is happy, as long as the smile is present on his face, like his was in that moment. A man drinking alone when he is sad, however, is a very different story.

“To Mathieu,” he says to the silent room, raising his glass into the air before drinking it down.

*

Mathieu lies on the bed, breathing heavily with some man or the other’s seed leaking from his arse. He stares at the ceiling, ornately painted some decades ago now, as he hears his client dress himself and shut the door behind him. Mathieu allows himself a few moments of repose; he was allowed to come with this client, and is enjoying the shot of happiness in his veins and the thought of Dominic in his mind.

Slowly, he cleans himself off and dresses again, creeping from the room and down a corridor. His next client isn’t for an hour or so, but he doesn’t want to get roped into any kind of social interaction. He isn’t in the humour for it today.

His ears prick up, though, as he hears a noise from one of the adjoining bedrooms. He knows that it’s the unspoken etiquette of the house that you don’t listen to the others. Unless, of course, that is a request of the client. Mathieu’s had his fair share of sessions spent simply watching one of his colleagues writhe around on a bed with their own client, because they paid for it. This time, though, he instantly recognises the voices.

“Let me _go_.”

His breath catches in his throat. That is not the sound of a willing courtesan. And most alarmingly, it is the voice of Cécile.

“You will give me an heir whether you like it or _not_.”

And that is the sound from his very worst nightmares.

He cannot control the motion of his own feet; some animal instinct pulls him along to her side, to her assistance. The sounds build as he approaches the door; he can hear a struggle through the panels, and that low, rumbling voice which puts the fear of God into his heart. Despite that fear, his hands unconsciously throw open the door, unveiling a grim scene to him. Cécile - oh, sweet, fiery Cécile, who has done all in her power to help him, and would do countless times over - lies strewn across the rug with her skirt of aquamarine silk torn in two, her pale legs kicking wildly at the attacker who grasps hungrily at her thin ankles. Inarticulate with rage, Mathieu flings himself haphazardly in Aubertin’s path.

“Get _off_ her, you bastard,” Matthew roars, his featherlight body weight gaining a force to it with some momentum, and he manages to knock Aubertin off balance and onto the floor. Cécile stops screaming, and settles for merely crying as she scuttles along the rug, pressing herself up against the edge of the bed curling her legs under her protectively. Mathieu steps back, instinctively trying to shield her with his own body as Aubertin groans and gets back to his feet.

“How _dare_ you--” he begins to growl, but Mathieu cuts him off.

“I could say the very same thing,” he says clearly and loudly, the adrenaline in his veins like a fiery shot of absinthe. He tips his chin upwards and meets Aubertin’s eyes, despite his thinning frame and the threat of even more punishments to come. “How very _dare_ you attempt to take a courtesan, _one of your own_ , and attempt to violate her, in your own establishment! How low. You are a monster, and I know you will not understand what I am saying if I talk about morals. Listen here,” Mathieu says, stepping forward and jabbing a finger into Aubertin’s flabby chest, “if I were to go to the press with this, the scandal would be barbaric. You would lose all your customers and all your money.”

“And you already have an heir.”

Mathieu’s head snaps round to wear Cécile is still sat on the ground, eyes wide with terror. Aubertin sniffs loudly, brushing Mathieu aside with a beefy hand as he steps towards Cécile. She visibly recoils. “What did you just say, _pute_?”

“Y-You have an heir. His name is Dominic Howard, and he lives in L--”

“And how do you know about him, _salope_?” he sneers, before he straightens up out of his condescending posture to stare down at Mathieu again. “I suppose you would know something about him, though, seeing as there are letters in my office, in his hand, addressed to _you_.” Aubertin’s pudgy finger presses into Mathieu’s chest, and he stumbles back slightly from the force of it. “Explain yourself. Now.”

“We.... we have been corresponding,” Mathieu says. His mind is racing as he tries to find an excuse, and he finds one in the very nick of time. “He is visiting, in the New Year, you see--”

“I am fully aware, I retain frequent correspondance with my very own nephew,” Aubertin interrupts. _Liar_ , Mathieu thinks but does not say.

“And, well, he confided in me... I am not sure if I should tell you, sir,” Mathieu says, making a grand deal out of feigning a moral conflict. Ah, how being a courtesan can make of you an actor.

“Out with it, boy.”

“He has a preference for, well, men, sir.” He tries to ignore the incredulous, mocking sneer his master puts on. “ And he was enquiring as to whether I would be available in that time, perhaps for days on end.” Mathieu hopes dearly that Aubertin doesn’t ask how Dominic knew Mathieu’s name in the first place, or that he hadn’t read the letter, or that he didn’t notice one of the other many flaws in his lie. Instead, Aubertin sniffed the air indignantly.

“I always knew he was very much that kind of man, if I dare call him one,” Aubertin says disapprovingly. “You are to no longer correspond with him. He is the son of a Brigadier, don’t you know, and he is far too noble to be writing to scum of the earth like you. The boy has trouble enough with his morals without you sullying them further,” Aubertin hisses. “I am confiscating any more letters that arrive from him until Dominic arrives himself. As for what happened in this room...” he looks at them both, jabbing his finger in the air between his two most profitable courtesans. “If I hear a single breath from either of you about this matter, I will have you out on the streets.”

Aubertin laughs menacingly.

“Or worse. So much worse.”

With one final glare at Mathieu, Aubertin turns on his heel and leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You are an angel, Mathieu,” Cécile murmurs softly from her spot on the floor, inspecting the tear in her dress with a frown. “What on earth would I do without you, rushing out to save me like that-”

“What in the hell did you think you were doing?!” Mathieu shouts, and Cécile jumps, looking up at him in horror. “For heaven’s sake, why did you mention Dominic? I didn’t want to bring him into this, and now _look what you’ve done!_ ”

Mathieu stops himself, and his jaw goes slack. He realises that his fists are raised, more in anger at the circumstances than at Cécile, but the fright on her face is pure. Mathieu realises, in that very moment, quite how protective and passionate he is about Dominic. In the following moment, he realises that Cécile knows it too.

“Cécile, _coucou_ , I’m sorry,” he bends down to kiss her cheek. “Forgive me. I was just so frightened. I was so scared.”

She blinks softly at him - he knows he is already forgiven. Relived, he takes hold of her temples and kisses her forehead. “I shan’t let that brute touch you again, coucou,” he whispers. “We must do _something_ , though - it can’t go on like this.”

Cécile’s eyes turn poisonous. She lowers her voice until it is barely audible.

“We could _kill him, coucou_.”

Mathieu gasps. “That is a little rash, Cécile -”

“I don’t care,” she spits, rubbing one reddened eye. “I want him dead, Mathieu. I mean it.”

Mathieu ponders it for a moment; it could be done. A drop of poison in his wine, a pillow over that grizzled mouth of his in the night, a simple shove down the stairs. Mathieu barely considers the repercussions. Oh, he would have himself hanged if it meant Cécile would be happy. But he shakes his head.

“We’ll sort it out somehow, Cécile. I know it.”

He raises his companion from the ground, ignoring her grumbled promises to throttle and maim, and leads her back to the dormitory with a heart as heavy as lead in his chest. It will be difficult without Dominic to confide in, he knows it; but he must persevere, all the same. There cannot be long to wait now.


	8. Chapter 8

> MATHIEU BELAMI to Master DOMINIC HOWARD
> 
> 1st December 1891, Montmartre, Paris
> 
> _Dear Dominic,_
> 
> _A great calamity has befallen me. It seems, for a while now, my employer your uncle has been aware of our correspondence. Though we are fortunate that he does not know the exact content of our letters he says he will take measures to intercept your messages to me from now onwards. I suppose this means that I may write to you all I please, but I shall not receive any replies. And with that in mind, I suppose again that I will not know the date of your arrival until that blessed day finally comes. I hope I shall not have to wait long, my love. My soul pines for your company._
> 
> _There is but one other message I must convey to you; when at last we meet, you must be careful to disguise your love for me. Aubertin remains under the impression that you sought me only for puerile ends; that I am nothing more than a desired male whore for your consumption. I urge you, if this letter reaches you in time, to be careful. If Aubertin should realise there is more to our relationship than common lust then we shall both have a heavy punishment, and I cannot bear to be parted from you so soon after I have finally been offered the perfection of your presence._
> 
> _I will wait patiently, mon amour._
> 
> _Mathieu xxxx_

*

> 9th December 1891
> 
> _Cher journal,_
> 
> _December is upon us, and what a bizarre start to the month we have had! It is just over a month since I first christened you with my scrawl, and what a month it was. I fell in love, cher journal, I fell in love in the most wonderful of ways, and by the end of the next month I hope to have met the man who rides as king of my dreams. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself!_
> 
> _Paris is beginning to wrap itself for the winter, or so I can see from the windows of the establishment. I am going to beg to Aubertin, oh if I have to beg! - I just want to leave the house, if only for a short walk. I find myself growing weary, and that simply will not do in these winter months. However will I please Dominic, now that I am only skin and bone? I am very tempted to beg for my normal meals, too, otherwise Aubertin will have to hire in a tailor to take in my garments, I have shed so much weight._
> 
> _Christmas is always a busy time for us, but only in the very week before the event itself; when husbands return to their families via our establishment. There had been a lull this week, and Aubertin had attended a luncheon somewhere near Notre Dame... oh, the joy in my heart when I realised I could sneak off to my favourite part of the house without suspicion! I had sat myself down at the baby grand in the nicest of the salons, and had contented myself for a full two hours before I was told to hurry off, that Aubertin was returning. The household adored the music, you see it is only Aubertin himself who dislikes it. What a strange man, to live a life with no music nor love. I actually pity him._
> 
> _Perhaps I will play to Dominic when he arrives. It would please me so._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Mathieu x_

*

_15th December 1981_

The breakfast bell rings clear and bright through the air. Mathieu wakes from his sleep - oh, how glad he is that he is permitted a little rest on these frigid, dark winter nights! - and springs from his bed, throwing the cover off with intense vigour. Today is the first day of many that he is permitted to have breakfast - not only breakfast but his full three meals! - and he will let no power in heaven or earth stop him from this most beloved of events.

He rushes to Cécile, shaking her awake; she sticks out a few jagged limbs to arrest her attacker, but waking to see her friend staring back with eyes positively bubbling with excitement, she ceases her protestations.

“Cécile!” he cries, raucous as a flock of birds. “Today is the day, today is the day!-”

“I know!” she laughs, throwing a pillow at him. “You haven’t kept quiet about it all week.”

“Do you think he will come today, Cécile?”

“It would be nice,” she admits softly. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up,  _coucou._  It would be rather short notice.”

“It feels like I have waited years already, though.” Mathieu huffs, tugging on a satin jacket. “Surely he knows I will go mad if I must wait much longer.”

Laughing playfully, she takes up the rest of the sheets in her hand, smacking Mathieu’s rump with it. She giggles at his startled reaction. “Go on!” she urges him. “Hurry, before breakfast is cold!”

Mathieu smiles impishly, dodging the makeshift whip with a short yelp before darting out of her reach and into le milieu. He barely checks to see if she follows; his insistent feet will not wait. The promise is food is too wonderful for a moment’s hesitation. Practically skipping down to the canteen, the smile on his face only grows as he sits and is passed a bowl, cheeks aching from grinning when it is filled, and not taken from him. The joy to behold! Aubertin is nowhere to be seen, and Mathieu ravenously eats, never having savoured the oatmeal to such an extent in his short life.

It is more than the food, though. For Mathieu, it is a sense of social elevation and triumph. He has taken on Aubertin’s strict ruling and won. He has learnt his mistake, certainly. Mathieu knows he will not lie with Cécile again, but he craves the day where he will lie with Dominic, the only person he can now dare think about in such a context. He stares into the now-empty bowl before him and tells himself, perhaps this is not all that will await him in future. What on earth will life be like, when his lover the Londoner enters it? He closes his eyes and daydreams blissfully of feasts, banquets, elaborate desserts. Oh, yes. The future shall be delectable indeed. And that is not to mention the delicacy that is Dominic himself.

For once, he finds himself looking forward to the end of the year, because he knows for certain that the next year will be better.

*

_23rd December 1891_

Dominic eyes Mathieu’s latest letter sourly. That cursed letter, to which he cannot reply, for reasons explained within. It fills him with bitter thoughts to know that he cannot tell Mathieu when he will arrive, or even wish him a merry Christmas. All the warm, wintry splendour of his family home is quite spoiled by the notion that he cannot send the same warmth into his beloved’s heart. 

Slumping with a mournful sigh, he rests his head on his writing-desk. 

“Dominic?”

Waking from his miserable slumber, Dominic jolts back upright. 

“Father!” he says, the word escaping his lips almost involuntarily as he spins in his chair. There, in the doorway, stands Brigadier James Howard, still in his vibrant uniform, his sword slung at his hip and a benevolent smile projected at his son, from whom he has been so distant of late. He has the same sort of poised handsomeness Dominic does, and the same eyes of ethereal grey, the strong chin decorated with a neatly-trimmed beard, with a moustache perched elegantly above his top lip. Dominic gasps a moment, and somehow filled with childlike glee, runs to him. 

“Merry Christmas, dear boy,” his father says. They hesitate, for a moment, before Dominic dives forward for a tight embrace, his father welcoming his son into his arms.

“Father - I had no idea you were visiting us. I thought you were still overseas,” Dominic says as he steps out of the embrace.

“Well, I still am. Turns out those Egyptians make bloody good soldiers, did you know, and finished their training early for the year. Me and the lads popped home for Christmas, before we go back for Sudan. But enough of that, you don’t want to hear my war talk!”

This is untrue. Dominic fondly, and often, remembers the days when his father would bounce him on his knee as a child, telling him exciting tales about the battles he had won and the near brushes he had had with death. He does not say this, though. He knows that the times have changed, and that the circumstances have changed along with it.

“How has London been in my absence?” James laughs, clapping his son on the back as he leads them from Dominic’s bedroom. “Did that friend of yours get married? Any lavish parties I have missed?”

Dominic laughs quietly. “Tom’s wedding was splendid, Father. I’m sure he’ll be very happy.”

“And what about you?” A mischievous twinkle manifests in James’ eyes, and he nudges Dominic with a jovial elbow. “Have you been busy on the streets of London recently?”

Dominic knows exactly what his father is alluding to, for he himself is the exact replica of his father at his age. However, his father had been a young soldier in the Army, and that had allowed him such behaviour. Dominic was supposed to be a gentleman.

The encouragement from his father though remained amusing.

“No wives, thank God,” he smirks. “But I have had my fair share of misadventures, don’t you worry.”

“You seem... I daresay, boy, you seem to have a spring in your step!” James exclaims, guiding them into the salon Dominic received Christopher in a few weeks ago. Now, though, with only a couple of days until Christmas, it is luxuriously yet tastefully furnished in the fashion of the day, with a large, luminous tree in the corner of the room. James pours himself a whiskey, and Dominic gratefully accepts the glass poured for him.

Blushing slightly, Dominic tortures the lining of his shirt with nervous fingers. “Well. There have been... developments since we last met.”

“Developments that make Dominic James Howard blush must be very important developments indeed,” James muses as he reclines on the settee. “Do go on.”

His son bites his lip. “Father… it might be quite a sensitive subject.”

“Dominic. I have killed people, with not only shots but also my bayonet. I have seen men ripped apart before my very eyes. I have seen children slaughtered, and yet you tell me that your love life is  _sensitive_?” James asks, his tone serious but his expression rather light. Dominic shuts his mouth from where it had been hanging open impolitely, to stutter out his answer.

“I... I suppose that does rather put it all in perspective.”

“Indeed. Now, out with it, boy.”

He gulps, searching the room hesitantly. “I’m not married, Father. But I  _am_  in love.”

“Oh?”

“With a whore, Father. A whore in Paris.” And before James can even voice his reaction, Dominic interrupts him. “His name is Mathieu.”

For a moment, the silence lies intensely heavy on the shoulders of the interlocutors. It is only shifted from position when James clears his voice.

“Goodness gracious,” James says, looking at the contents of his glass before downing the rest in one fell swoop. He hums, before pouring himself another glass. He offers the decanter to Dominic, who shakes his head with a terrified look upon his face. James takes another gulp or two, before looking his son in the eyes. “I can see how that would be sensitive.”

“I should have known you would be disappointed.” Dominic grumbles lowly.

“Quite frankly, I’m not. And that surprises myself. It takes quite the set of balls to say that, and especially to your own father.” James pauses as he takes another drink from his glass. “I can’t say I particularly condone it, but I cannot condemn it. How long has this been going then, and how? Tell me everything; in a gentlemanly fashion, now.”

Dominic’s characteristic grin creeps back onto his lips. “Gentlemanly? I barely know the meaning of the word.”

*

_25th December 1891_

Mathieu awakes with his skin doused in a cold sweat. His sleep was fitful at best, and downright barbaric at worst. He’d had the misfortune of glancing at one of the newspapers yesterday, abandoned by a customer. Stormy weather in the channel, according to the words emblazoned on the page. It was likely to continue for a few weeks, if not more, and slow passenger ferries were being warned to be much more careful than they usually were.

What if Dominic’s ferry were to capsize, and for his lover to be drowned? Mathieu would never know. The very thought of that vast emptiness, the void of his future and his heart so horrific and huge, paralyses him with fear. Last night he tried so very hard to bury such irrational fears, with very little luck. All night his mind has been invaded by sickening nightmares where he watches Dominic sink countless times into the icy depths of the choppy sea which divides them now. Mathieu himself would drown in the own icy depths of his existence, the light now extinguished as he would plunge into the darkness of his nightmarish life. He would wake in fits of tears, and yet try to restrain his sobs for the sake of more serene sleepers. How humiliating it would be, to be seen bawling like a child in the night! - Even Cécile has not yet witnessed such frantic episodes.

_I must go for a walk_ , he lectures himself.  _I must clear my mind of this darkness._ And where better to purify the soul than the very house of Christ? It is Christmas morning, he remembers; it has been terribly overshadowed by the night he has just braved. Hurrying from the bed to his few outdoor clothes, he prepares to leave the establishment for the first time in months, and escape into the sweet coldness of a snowy Parisian morning.

He had spent a good week trying to please Aubertin in any way he could degrade himself in. He found himself thankful that Aubertin was in no way attracted to men, because he had been very close to offering to do something to that loathsome boss of his, before he gagged at the very thought of it.

He had done everything but, though. He had pleased each and every one of his clients to the best of his ability. He had worked hard on his English with Harold, who had remarked on Mathieu’s incredible improvements over the last few weeks. Mathieu had taken up extra duties and extra clients, even sacrificing his Christmas Eve to work, purely for the sake of this very moment.

He steps out of the front door of the establishment, and his boots crunch into the snow. A smile slowly grows on his face, as he steps down the three steps onto the street, giggling quietly to himself. He begins to walk down the road towards the church, beautiful and gigantic against the clear winter sky, as the snow squeaks below him.

The city is silent, and Mathieu allows himself to feel innocent, if only for a fleeting moment. He is so brash and rude in this bright red which marks him, against the delicate, plaintive white of his surroundings. Like a blot of paint against a pure canvas. 

There is a small congregation forming around the doors of the church, and Mathieu feels their stares burning against his skin as he squeezes inside. Most of the other members of the establishment went to midnight mass whilst Mathieu had been working, so he was alone this morning. He appreciated the isolation, but also craved the safety that numerous workers brought him. Swallowing dryly, Mathieu sits in a pew near the back of the church, not daring to draw more attention to himself by sitting closer.

Mass passes quickly. He watches as people go up to receive communion; the priest had made it clear many years ago that he would never offer communion to the members of Aubertin’s establishment, so Mathieu simply sits and watches. He remembers, as he always does, to ask for forgiveness for this in his prayers. He stares up into the rafters, waiting for the service to finish, so he can pray in peace. As people begin to filter from the church, each gracing him with a derisive glare as they pass, Mathieu drops onto his knees in the pew.

“Oh, God, can you hear me?” Mathieu whispers quietly to himself, head bowed low and eyes shut. “I have been absent for a while now; but I prayed every night, I promise. Every night I wished that I could come here, to speak to you. I was punished by my master, and I expect to be punished by you. I deserve it, for not being as faithful to you as I should have been.”

Mathieu sighs a shaky breath. The church is quieter now, and he feels alone with his Lord. “I try to do the right thing,” he says quietly, reverently. “For you. You are the only person who can judge me. My master can punish me but he cannot withhold redemption, like you can.” Matthew swallows down the cold, dusty air of the church. “I have done all I can to make you happy, I promise. I only wish I was not trapped like this - I cannot be innocent like this, not like I desire to be.” He dips his head to hide the beginnings of a sniffle, but once a solemn tear has been spilled it cannot be restrained. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I have failed you, my God. I am so sorry.”

The priest hovers around the altar; he has been watching Mathieu, through the odd brief glance. His interest has been piqued as soon as he saw that fervid flash of red from the end of the aisle. Now that he has heard that fragile prayer uttered so sincerely, he feels he cannot stay away.  He approaches the sobbing, hunched figure in the centre of the aisle carefully, and extends a hand, reaching out to him.

“My son,” he addresses Mathieu. “I am sure that God has heard your prayer.”

Mathieu wipes a hand across his sodden eyes. They twinkle brightly as they take in the priest, the wrinkled hand still outstretched and open.

“Why would He help me?” he asks, and his voice shakes. “Why would He waste his time on me?”

“If you have prayed sincerely, He will answer you.”

Mathieu lowers his head once more. He ardently hopes the holy man speaks the truth, and that the reward he has been promised will soon be in sight. 

*

The sparse joy of Christmas soon leaves Aubertin’s establishment, and the dull ache of routine returns for Mathieu. He sees the New Year greeted by frivolous parties in the roads as he stares from the window. He thanks Aubertin, very briefly, for his method of clients having to schedule appointments. Mathieu would not find it in himself to politely entertain a drunkard who happened upon the establishment for a laugh.

The days for Mathieu have become dry and colourless. With each passing moment he can feel the anticipation for Dominic wane slowly away. It has been so long since their last contact that his hope is almost totally eroded. The nightmares have continued, even through the festive season. Now he no longer wakes in desperate shock and horror. Instead, he contemplates quietly the strong possibility that his worst fears have come true. Rendered cold as stone, he stalks the corridors of the groaning house in silent acceptance that he will never see Dominic again. 

That God had exacted his punishment, just as Mathieu had asked him to.

It has affected his work terribly, of course. He cannot summon up the old passion in the same way he could before, not even for show. He will lose clients for this, he is sure. But he finds it very difficult to care at all for his dwindling pay. What will he need the money for, anyway? For food? He is little in want of sustenance, when there is so little to stay alive for. As he settles down for a quick bite of bread before his next client is due - he has already left three unsatisfied today - he finds it to be vile and tasteless on his tongue.

“Mathieu,” Cécile butts in softly, taking his cold hand between hers as he chews slowly on a crust, staring out into the vast nothingness. “Are you ill, coucou?”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Mathieu whispers. Cécile makes a shushing noise, as she wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Mathieu, my darling, you cannot think like that! You must remember, if anything  _did_ happen - and I am sure that it won’t! - but if it did, Aubertin would be informed. You would know. I am sure he is fine. Perhaps his horses tired more quickly than assumed, or... or the snow has slowed them down. Yes. That’s most likely it.”

Mathieu sighs as he continues chewing morosely, before swallowing the sticky lump in his mouth. “I have a client,” he says, pressing the rest of the bread into Cécile’s hand as he leaves her. She watches him go, clutching her chest. It makes her heart shrivel and die within her to see him so beleaguered. 

Making his way through the house, Mathieu allows the malaise to consume him once more, happy to be away from Cécile. He cannot stand her optimism. He goes to cross the landing at the top of the stairs, when he hears heated voices from downstairs. He recognises Aubertin’s tone, but cannot place why it is different.

Mathieu realises as his heart seizes in his chest. Aubertin is speaking English.

Turning on his heel, Mathieu sneaks across the landing. Stealing glances from between the banisters, he cannot see much. He can only hear the low snarl of Aubertin’s, much rougher of late due to a sore throat. In fact its timbre is so piercing he can barely hear the softer voice of the visitor. His hands shake - _no, you fool, it cannot be him, I cannot dare to believe it!_  - as he tiptoes down three steps without a sound, though his soul within him is aflame. He thinks perhaps the whole house will hear his heartbeat.

Two more steps. Why is he so afraid? It is almost as if his heart knows there is some twist in his destiny waiting there, for better or for worse. Oh, he can hear it now, as gentle as the sighing of doves. His very heart ceases in its noise just to listen.

“...Yes, I understand, but my master requested in advance this very one. I…”

And then that piggish grunt of Aubertin’s cuts it off again. Curses! The Englishman’s mother tongue flows like some fragrant song. He could listen to it swim in his ears all day. Mathieu peeks through the bannisters, to see a thick-set man at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a top hat in his hand.

Mathieu’s heart sinks. That is not the Dominic Howard he saw in the photograph. Lulling back into his misery, and finding very scarce motivation to go to his next client, he sits cross-legged at the top of the stairs. He may as well watch the scene play out.

“I see...” the Englishman says nervously. “I will have to--”

“What is the meaning of all this?!”

Mathieu’s eyes dart to the door, from where the new voice has originated, in English so lovely it makes Mathieu’s head swim. The stranger removes his hat as he crosses the threshold, a bright flash of golden hair revealed like some precious relic unveiled.

_Dominic_.

Mathieu jumps up from his hiding place, his heart thudding away in his chest once more as he grips the bannister for support, easing himself down the stairs. He drinks in the sight of the gentleman, clad in such finery, and with such an elegant voice! He speaks so quickly that Mathieu cannot understand all of the words, but the sound thrills him nonetheless.

“I am outraged, dear uncle, that you are refusing me the right to the courtesan I specifically demanded!” Dominic argues, anger colouring his cheeks. His driver retreats further into the corner, still fumbling with his hat, and Aubertin stands with his back to the stairs. Mathieu trembles; how long has he waited now for this moment? Now that it has finally come, it barely feels real. Even his hot blushes of acrimony are as exquisite as roses.

“Surely one of my many female beauties will appeal to you?” Aubertin attempts to say sweetly, but his thick accent does him no favours.

“No. That simply will not do,” Dominic says, turning slightly as he talks. “I specifically requested...  _Mathieu?_ ”

Their eyes meet, and there is silence. Mathieu is frozen into place. He wonders for a moment that perhaps his spirit has left his body, and ascended up through the ceiling and into the bright paradise of Heaven, leaving him as cold as a statue, and the grey eyes he has only now seen, shining valiantly at him from the hallway, are those to blame.

Aubertin clears his throat again, and the sound calls Mathieu’s soul back down from Elysium. 

“You can not, Dominic. He is busy for the rest of the day.”

Dominic furrows his brow. Still he will not take his eyes from Mathieu.

“Well, tell the other clients I will repay them for their trouble. I will have him to myself for the next seventy-two hours, at least.”

“ _Conneries_. You do not have the money,” Aubertin spits. Dominic, still looking at Mathieu, petrified on the stairs, blindly reaches into his pocket, producing a wad of notes in Aubertin’s direction.

“I went to the trouble of getting you francs, nonetheless. Come, Mathieu, we are leaving.”

Mathieu’s eyes go wide. He looks towards Aubertin, years of servitude making him dependent on what his master says. His master, however, is gleefully counting through the bank notes. Mathieu does not think he is worth that much, even for a full seventy-two hours, but he slowly places on foot in front of the other as he descends the stairs.

He pauses. “Do I... need anything? Where...” His question dies on his tongue as Dominic grins once more. Mathieu feels shame creeping through his body, did Dominic find his English amusing? Was it  _that_  poor?

“No, Mathieu, you do not,” Dominic says, and Mathieu feels reassured as he hears his name on those lips again. He will never tire of it. “I have clothes for you. We are going to a hotel.”

_Clothes?_  Mathieu looks down at the tattered scarlet outfit he wears now, the silk beginning to thin and the fastenings repaired too many times to count. He continues down the stairs, at last coming level with Dominic, the man who for so long was simply a black and white photograph and handwriting on a page. He stands just shorter than the man, and Mathieu tries not to jump as Dominic turns him towards the door, with his hand in the small of Mathieu’s back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to Eli who did [this beautiful artwork](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CLAyx90XAAAnjKg.png) for the chapter

“This is the first time I have been in a carriage.”

Dominic looks at Mathieu, from where he sits at his side, smiling at the way Mathieu delicately said the words. The look of joy on the courtesan’s face has distracted him from thinking about every single depraved way in which he would ravish him. He fiddles with his hat, perched on his lap.

“I’ve got a present for you at the hotel,” Dominic says. Mathieu smiles, turning to look at him. It is a mixture between shy appreciation and coquettishness, and makes Dominic’s cock twitch in his trousers.

“You do not need to do that,” the courtesan sighs mildly, though Dominic can tell very well how grateful he is. He must not be accustomed to receiving such lavish gifts - that brothel is a place of utter deprivation, he muses.

“Oh, I did.” Dominic reassures him brightly. “You’ve told me time and time again how dreadful life under my uncle can be. You deserve a taste of the finer things in life for once.”

The Englishman’s eyes meander carefully to the window; beyond it Christopher sits, steering the vehicle. How much would his employee be able to hear, he wonders, through the walls of this flimsy construction? Or rather how much movement would he detect before he became suspicious? He knows Christopher is a friend, and aware of his desires, but he finds himself unwilling to unnerve him in such a way - and, oddly, unwilling to break this rare chaste moment between himself and a lover.

Mathieu blushes, barely visible in the dim light of the carriage. “I cannot believe you are here,” Mathieu says quietly, before meeting Dominic’s eyes. Dominic had never expected the man to be so beautiful, after he had described himself as such an average man. Dominic realises now  that he is anything but.

An overwhelming desire to kiss Mathieu bubbles through his veins, and just as he considers pulling the curtains of the carriage shut, it comes to a halt.

The horses bray; the vehicle heaves as its driver departs. The door of the carriage eases open tentatively; Christopher is obviously quite afraid of what kind of scene he might discover inside. “We’re here, sir,” he says quite needlessly. The concierge comes out to greet them, aiding Christopher in unloading the luggage. Dominic steps down from the carriage, turning back and offering Mathieu his hand, as he would to any good lady. As they turn to walk into the building, Dominic notices the concierge’s eyes drop away at the flash of red clothing that is Mathieu. Dominic smirks, thinking of his gift. Placing his hand back on its newfound home on Mathieu’s back and holding his top hat in the other, they stroll up the steps to the hotel.

Mathieu gasps; he gapes up at the folded rooftops of the building, the arched windows, the elegant balconies each blazoned with the motif of a rose. He excitedly points out a glimmering chandelier in the sitting-room downstairs.

“Dominic,” he sighs blissfully, still agog at the sight. “Where is this? Is it...expensive?” A dash of worry colours his soft expression for a moment.  _Oh, but Monsieur Howard has already spent so much on me! Will he have anything left, I wonder, when these three days are done?_

But then Dominic smiles at him, and he feels like  _he_  should be paying  _Dominic_  for the honour of being in his presence. He can’t think of any English words he knows to say how he feels, so he stays silent, creeping closer to Dominic’s side as they approach the desk in the lobby.

“ _Bonjour messieurs, avez-vous une reservation_?” croons the clerk, who quirks an eyebrow at the unusual pair, but says nothing more, thank God. He must be rather used to unconventional guests here.

Dominic takes a piece of paper from his pocket, giving it to him. He reads over the small note, before he smiles and looks down at a book before him.

“ _Monsieur Howard, bienvenue à Paris, nous sommes ici pour vous aidez si vous avez des...”_

Dominic blinks, trying to keep up with the French being thrown at him faster than a locomotive. The clerk looks up at him expectantly, and Dominic opens his mouth to speak, but he is beaten to it.

“ _Oui, merci, ce sera parfait. Merci bien, c’est gentil_ ,” Mathieu says quickly, and Dominic turns to him with a wondrous smile on his face. As the clerk scribbles in his book, Dominic cocks his head slightly. “He says he would like to offer the  _suite de luxe_ , for free, because you are his first English gentleman of the year.”

Dominic smirks. “Ah. Thank you. Your French sounds beautiful, by the way.”

Mathieu takes a second to process what Dominic has said, before smiling widely, trying to fight the blush creeping to his cheeks. The clerk is presenting the book to Dominic with a pen, and Dominic signs his name. Dominic takes the keys from the man, bidding him with a very heavily accented  _au revoir_  in contrast to Mathieu’s, which sounds light as a feather.

They head towards the stairwell, walking in near silence to the fifth floor of the building. Dominic stops on the third floor though, turning to Mathieu as he stands a few steps above him. “I’d love for you to talk more French to me,” he says lowly, and Mathieu climbs a few steps until they are almost level. “It makes me very...”

Dominic’s sentence is left unfinished as Mathieu’s eyes meet his, face innocent but lips parted just so. Dominic swallows, turning around and continuing to climb the stairs, biting his lip and trying to control his breathing. He cannot put his finger on it; whenever he tries to voice his more salacious desires, the infinity in Mathieu’s eyes puts the fear of God into him. He curses himself. Never before has he allowed sentiment to get the better of him in such a way.

“Come on,” he finds himself saying, rather disappointed in his lack of courage. “I think the room’s just down this corridor.”

Clicking the key in the door, Dominic opens up the treasure-box that is the  _suite de luxe_ ; a chandelier reminiscent of suspended pearls illuminates a lavish four-poster bed, a writing desk on the far right and a bookcase and seat for two by a bright window gazing down on the splendour of Paris. He looks to his courtesan, and worries momentarily for his health; Mathieu is so pale and faint with awe that he looks as if he might fall to the floor from sheer dizzied delight.

“ _Mon Dieu,_ ” he murmurs absent-mindedly. A weak, unconscious hand raises to his chest to cross himself. “ _C’est magnifique_.”

Dominic grins, placing his hat down on the writing desk.. He does love to see those eyes so big and bright. The grin fades, however, as he realises quite how nervous Mathieu looks. “Is something the matter?” he asks, and Mathieu looks at him with a near pained expression.

“I... would you like to undress me, or should I undress myself?” Mathieu asks, his hands already hovering around his top button. Dominic simply looks at him, utterly confused.

“I would like to kiss you,” he says quietly, “and I would like nothing more than that at the moment.”

Mathieu looks down at his feet. “You only have to tell me, and I will do it.”

Dominic crosses the room, coming face to face with Mathieu. The courtesan feels absolutely out of his depth as he stares up into those stormy grey eyes. He wonders how he could’ve failed Dominic in such a short amount of time. He tries not to whimper.

“Matthew,” Dominic says tenderly, and Mathieu cannot help but smile at the anglicised version of his name. He quite likes it, actually. “I want us to be equals. I’m not your client,” Dominic says, taking Mathieu’s hands in his. “I’m your lover,” he finishes quietly, looking down at their joined hands.

Mathieu feels a bolt of courage flash through his veins. He takes the initiative, and presses his lips against Dominic’s.

Dominic has to stop himself from gasping into the kiss; my God! He had not thought Mathieu would suddenly become so bold, so passionate - is this what he must hide, all this fervent love, seething under his skin as he feigns affection for his clients? And this rawness, this wild beauty, he fancies, is reserved for him alone. Finally recovering from the initial bewilderment, he takes a soft hold of Mathieu’s cheek, and kisses back firmly as if offering his soul.

Mathieu seems eager to devour it.

Their tongues meet, and Mathieu lets out a low groan - what a wondrous sound! - as he tips his head back, just a little, and Dominic presses kisses along his clean-shaven jaw line. “I want to give you that present now,” he murmurs into Mathieu’s ear, and the sigh the courtesan emits is near heavenly. Dominic draws away a moment - oh, his skin stings to be parted from Mathieu’s! - and he pokes his head out of the door, smiling at the sight of his luggage piled there neatly. For the moment, he takes the neat looking box, complete with a black ribbon, and heads back into the room. Mathieu stands expectantly in the middle of the room, a smile on his face, as Dominic places the box in his eager hands.

“For you,” he says simply. Mathieu unties the dainty ribbon, and Dominic lifts the lid of the box for him. Mathieu lets out a trill of laughter.

“Oh, my,” he says, pulling the garment from the box. “It’s... oh.”

Dominic’s mouth tugs at the corners involuntarily; Mathieu’s reaction is unspeakably marvellous.  He takes the now empty box from Mathieu’s hands, leaving him holding the red corset, resplendent with new satin and adorned with ornate gold trims, between his fingers.The long silk trail of it tumbles gracefully down to the floor. “Exquisite,” Mathieu says in an accent which tugs at Dominic’s belly. His face flickers for a moment, though. “I do have quite the number of red corsets, though.”

Dominic smiles, expecting this. “I know. But this one is different. This one, you can wear and you can think of me, and all of this, and our first time together,” he says as he steps closer, fingers distractedly pulling Mathieu’s shirt out of his trousers. Dominic has waited so long to see Mathieu in this garment, and he cannot wait a moment longer. “I will rescue you from there one day, for good, but for now I can only offer you this. Will you wear it for me?”

Mathieu’s grin only widens as he nods. He hands the corset to Dominic, pulling his shirt over his head, and once he can see again he bathes in the gaze that roams over his bare chest. The Englishman can barely remember the last time he saw skin so porcelain white - so pure it could be a marble statue. His heart aches to see the ribs that poke so prominently from his slim frame, and he cannot stop himself from resting a warm hand against them. Mathieu does not protest; his body melts into the touch like butter.

The thin white fingers gather up the rich material of the corset, curiously attempting to fit it around himself, but Dominic interrupts lightly, fingers reaching for the button and fly of Mathieu’s trousers.

“May I?”

A devilish smile. “ _Un moment_.” Mathieu quickly undoes his trousers and allows them to fall to the floor in a soft heap before presenting the gift to Dominic, who has to try his very best to tear his eyes away from the sleek and tempting sight of his bare legs, and perhaps more notably his cock, hanging thick and long between his legs.

“I was... supposed to have a client,” Mathieu says with a blush, before he looks up at Dominic. In a moment, that chaste gaze turns to something quite devilish. “I suppose it has worked in my favour.”

Dominic’s grin is just as depraved as Mathieu’s. “I could say the same,” he says, before he pulls the corset open, Mathieu biting his lip at the sight of it. Dominic feels slightly overdressed in his full suit, as he wraps the material around Mathieu’s chest. It is a good fit, thankfully, and Dominic tries to keep his eyes from wandering. He wants to take the whole image in from a distance. Instead, he stands behind Mathieu, untrained fingers slowly beginning to lace it up once more. It had been years since he had helped a lady into a corset (he is rather more of an expert helping them out of it) ; he had never assumed, however, he would be helping a man into one.

“I can help if you want,” Mathieu says quietly, head turned to the side just so. His profile is fascinating, Dominic decides as he glances up, before looking back down at his work.

“I’m quite enjoying myself,” Dominic says, a smirk sliding onto his face as he leaves his work for a second, instead holding Mathieu’s hips lightly and rolling his hips into the curve of Mathieu’s arse. The courtesan lets out a surprised gasp, but it is breathy enough that Dominic knows he enjoyed finding out  _quite_  how desired he is. Dominic, grinning triumphantly, finally finishes lacing the corset up, tying a dainty bow at the back of it and smoothing out the train of fabric, his fingertips ghosting over Mathieu’s skin as he does so. He wraps up the job with a slow kiss to the nape of his neck, and Mathieu lets out the quietest of moans.

“There are some other items at the bottom of the box,” Dominic says against Mathieu’s neck, pecking the skin once more. “I want you to put them on.”

Without another word, Dominic steps away from Mathieu and walks to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He has no real reason to be in here, except to prolong the moment of excitement, to delay the fantasy that he has been waiting so long to realise. He regards his reflection in the mirror carefully, adjusting his cravat and picking at his hair a little. Dominic’s reflection smiles back at him, before he opens the door a crack. “Are you ready?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Mathieu calls softly. Dominic grins for a moment, before calming himself down again.

“Stay there,” he says, before entering the room again, heading for the settee. He sits down with his legs slightly spread and he fights every instinct that tells him to look at Mathieu.

Dominic exhales shakily in anticipation, once Mathieu is done changing. “Turn around.”

He cannot suppress a gasp as Mathieu turns slowly, the train behind him smooth and dark as it swirls on the spot. The thin red stockings which cling so closely to his skin, and the daintily trimmed suspenders tight along his thighs, have perfected what was already a masterpiece. Dominic feels he may shed a tear; it is infinitely better than what he had pictured, weeks and weeks ago now, as he had first summoned the image of Mathieu to feed his pleasure.

Agape with wonder, he meekly beckons Mathieu forwards, without a word. The courtesan approaches willingly, each step slow and careful but somehow so sure that it is pacing in the very best of directions. In a moment he stands over Dominic, who gazes up at the face, the body he has loved from afar for too long, and bends down to rest a hand upon his knee with a smile which is all at once divine and devastating.

“I want you to dress up, too,” Mathieu says lowly. Dominic blinks a few times, confused.

“What? How?” he asks incredulously. Mathieu simply raises a finger to his lips, and Dominic feels all the blood in his body rush to his groin with the action. Daintily, Mathieu steps to the desk, picking up Dominic’s hat. He places it on his own head for a second, before giggling, leaning down to place it on Dominic’s.

“Better,” Mathieu says, as he places one hand on top of Dominic’s where it lies on the arm rest. He raises his knee, letting it rest on top of Dominic’s, as the Englishman’s free hand rushes to his thigh, thumb tracing the suspender as his hand slides around to cup Mathieu’s bare arse under the train of fabric.

Before any more time can be wasted, Dominic pulls Mathieu closer, taking a long kiss before allowing his hand to fall and caress the delectable curves of Mathieu’s waist. Mathieu straddles Dominic as he is pulled onto the sofa, giggling just a little before their mouths meet in sloppy kisses.

“The train is detachable,” Dominic murmurs against Mathieu’s lips, not giving him time to respond as their tongues meet once more.

“I see,” Mathieu says, as he adjusts himself in Dominic’s lap, their erections brushing through the layers of fabric.

“Yeah,” Dominic replies, rolling his hips up against Mathieu’s and grinning at the squeak the action causes. “So it doesn’t get in the way when you fuck me.”

Mathieu pulls back, a smile very slowly creeping across his face as he translates what Dominic said. “I hear you correctly, yes?” Mathieu asks with a laugh, before diving forwards again for a slow, tantalising kiss, toppling Dominic’s top hat off his head and onto the sofa beside him. Dominic laces his hands through his hair, and Matthew gasps, breaking the kiss as he leans his forehead against Dominic’s.

“I can’t believe you are real,” Mathieu says, and Dominic’s grin radiates palpable warmth. He feels Dominic’s hands fiddling at his sides as he unclasps the train of the corset, then pushing against his hips as he encourages Mathieu to stand. The courtesan does so, and the train falls to the floor, Mathieu gingerly stepping out of it.

Dominic thinks he looks absolutely sublime, clad in just the corset, suspender belt and stockings. He wonders if this is perhaps because of the outfit, or because of the deep affection he feels for the man beneath it. More likely, he decides, the latter.

He wants to see Mathieu wearing a dress, he decides. He wants to see Mathieu wearing a suit, the flinty grey of London skies perhaps, or black to match the shadows under his cheekbones. He wants to see Mathieu in a morning suit as he stands next to him at the altar, but the very  _idea_  is preposterous. He wants to see Mathieu spread on a bed, covered in rose petals. He wants to see Mathieu naked, both inside and out, totally and utterly open to be consumed by Dominic’s ever-loving gaze. Whatever guise he wears, Dominic knows Mathieu’s innermost private soul, and it will be perpetually beautiful under any manner of disguise.

“I love you,” Dominic says, standing up to see eye to eye to Mathieu. The words sounded out of place in his head but on his lips they sound like home.

And the smile Mathieu gives in reply is perhaps the best answer he could ever receive, let alone the sweet words that followed.

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” Mathieu says quietly, pulling him into a delicate kiss.

Dominic groans. “I need you on top of me right now,” he says, and Mathieu’s hands fly to the buttons of his jacket, making quick work of the garment and sliding it off Dominic’s shoulders to crumple on the floor. Dominic tries not to think about just how many times Mathieu has done this in the past - hopefully today he is doing it by choice -and instead focuses on those fingertips skittering across his chest as his cravat is loosened and tossed aside, and as his shirt is practically ripped from his body.

“Bed,” Dominic says, tugging Mathieu into a fierce kiss. There is no time for tenderness now.

The pair fall, limbs already interlocked, into the feather-soft sheets with a weighty shudder as the bed receives them. As Dominic sprawls, dazed and somewhat short of breath from their prolonged kisses, Mathieu rises to survey the body beneath him, and small, clever blue eyes dart about to take in the exposed skin hungrily.  _Oh, God_ , Dominic wonders, as he lies at the mercy of his courtesan.  _What is he going to do with me?_

He is certain, however, that he is in most expert hands. Mathieu gives a shy smile, completely in contradiction with his quite impressive bulge and the way his hands are now roaming Dominic’s chest. Shuffling, Dominic finds himself straddled, and with a wicked grin he rolls his hips up into Matthew’s.

The moan that resonates through the room is so much more perfect than he’d imagined, months and months ago.

Matthew’s fingers pop the button on Dominic’s trousers, shifting so he can slowly shimmy them down his hips. His underwear soon follows, and Mathieu’s face lights up as he unveils Dominic’s cock. He thinks it’s quite pretty, actually, but he doesn’t say it out loud. He pulls the garments down Dominic’s legs, helping throw them off the end of the bed. Turning back, Mathieu lets his eyes blaze trails up and down Dominic’s naked body, before crawling back towards him, straddling his thighs and reaching for his cock.

“You’re big,” Mathieu says, trailing his fingers softly up and down Dominic’s erection. “I would know.” he laughs fondly. “I can’t wait to have you inside me.”

Their eyes meet, and Dominic swallows heavily when he sees the arousal plain on Mathieu’s face. He doesn’t realise until that moment just how worried he is that Mathieu has been acting for him. Dominic hurriedly pushes that thought aside, instead throwing his head back into the pillows and letting out a long, low moan.

“I love the noises you make,” Mathieu says quietly, and his accent is driving Dominic insane. His hands run up his stockinged thighs to rest on his bare hips, just below the corset, and he thrusts upwards slightly into Mathieu’s barely-there touch.

“Please,” Dominic rasps, and Mathieu lets out a flirtatious giggle.

“I don’t understand, sorry,” he laughs, running his hands over Dominic’s bare torso again before applying featherlight touches to his erection. Dominic moans again, completely at the mercy of the courtesan and thoroughly enjoying it.

“ _S’il te plaît_ ,” Dominic whispers. Mathieu stops his ministrations, looking directly at Dominic and biting his lip.

“ _Bien sûr,”_ Mathieu says, licking his lips as Dominic’s hands move, cupping Mathieu’s soft buttocks gently as the courtesan scoots forward, their erections brushing. Mathieu whines a little, but otherwise stays silent as Dominic’s fingers caress the skin.

“Have you done this before?” Mathieu asks softly, in a practiced manner.

“Taken a tumble with a man as exquisitely beautiful as yourself?” Dominic asks, moving a hand to stroke Mathieu’s cheekbone with his thumb. He leans into the touch. “Not often. But I’ve never, um...  _prepared_  a gentleman before... the others have always been much more skilled than--”

“Would you like me to do it?” Mathieu asks. Dominic nods, as Mathieu takes his face between his hands and leans forward for a long, deep kiss. As he draws back, he presses his index and middle fingers against Dominic’s bottom lip.

“ _Suce mes doigts_ ,” Mathieu whispers, and Dominic’s mouth falls open, language barrier be damned. He knows precisely what Mathieu means. His tongue lathes the long digits, coating them to the best of his ability. Mathieu’s face creases with a childlike, fascinated grin, and once the job is done he retracts his fingers and replaces them with a moist kiss.

“ _Merci_ ,” he grins as he pulls away, fully aware now of the effect that the language is having on Dominic.  _Oh, I could curse him to the seventh hell and he’ll still love me!_  Mathieu raises himself on his knees, reaching towards his own arse and shakily exhaling as his fingertips brush his entrance.

Mathieu moans loudly as he sinks two slick fingers inside of him. Dominic’s fingers dig into the skin of his soft, fleshy thighs as he watches, biting his lip and wishing that his prick was replacing those fingers. “Hurry,” he whispers.

Mathieu obliges; he has waited three intolerable months for this moment. There will be no more waiting. He stretches himself as far as he can without too much pain before sinking down onto Dominic, who waits so eagerly beneath.

The moan elicited from both of them is nothing short of euphoric; yet so full, so heavy with desperation that it sounds almost mournful that this one sparkling moment will not last forever. But each are anxious to feel the first thrill of completion together, and so, finding a strong rhythm, rises and falls boldly, throwing back a sweat-slicked head in purest ecstasy.

“ _Dominic_ ,” Mathieu moans loudly, lowering himself to meet Dominic’s thrust upwards. He tugs the corset up his torso slightly, and Dominic’s hands rake up and down his thighs with such vigour that he tears a hole in one of Mathieu’s stockings. “ _Dom_ inic,” he sings again. “I won’t...”

“I want you to come on my face.”

Mathieu falls forward out of his upright position, hands gripping for purchase on Dominic’s sweat-dappled torso. “ _Quoi_?!” he says just as Dominic thrusts up again, and it comes out as little more than a whine.

Dominic reaches for Mathieu’s prick, taking it in a tight grip and tugging firmly. “I said,” he reiterates, “I want your come on my face.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Mathieu breathes on a moan. He revels in the feel of Dominic’s fingers around his cock, something his clients would never do for him, and he arches his back, his corset having slipped down as he stretches back, a bead of sweat running down his chest and past his nipples. “Dominic!”

Mathieu arrives at his orgasm with a high pitched “ _putain!_ ”, as Dominic holds him up with one strong hand and holds his cock with the other, eyes falling shut as Mathieu comes up along his neck and over his face. As Mathieu pants, Dominic lets out a guttural moan as he feels it against his skin, as he feels depraved and absolutely filthy, completely shed of his social status. With three more thrusts, he climaxes, filling Mathieu with his seed.

Dominic blindly guides Mathieu off his cock, lifting him and placing him down at his side before wiping his eyes so he can look at Mathieu, chest rising and falling as he stares at the ceiling with those azure eyes.

Mathieu turns to look at Dominic, a smile creeping over his face as he spies his own handiwork. He cradles Dominic’s face, thumbing a glob of come from Dominic’s chin and pressing it against his full lips. Dominic licks it off slowly, keeping eye contact with Mathieu all the time.

“It has never been that easy,” Mathieu murmurs, Dominic’s mouth twitching into a small grin. “It... normally... I have never been pleased so quickly,”

Dominic’s smile grows wider. Somewhere in his belly a little flame a pride flickers into life.

“So,” Mathieu coughs, the sound evolving into a small chuckle against the pillows. “Do you...do this,” he gestures to the current predicament of his bedfellow’s face with another hushed laugh. “Often?”

Dominic laughs, as Matthew catches another bit of it at the top of his finger, still warm, and presses it against Dominic’s lips. “This is the first time I’ve made this request,” Dominic says carefully, turning back to look at Mathieu to make sure he understands. “Ever since I received your first... hm,  _risqué_ letter, I had wanted you to do this to me. You are so perfect, Mathieu. I wanted you to make me feel that I’m not as good as that dreaded societal position I must apply myself to, I--”

Mathieu lays a gentle hand against Dominic’s shoulder, and Dominic falls silent. Mathieu stands up, walking to the bathroom in confident strides. He returns promptly, with a washcloth in his hand. With a smile, he crawls back onto the bed again, sitting at Dominic’s side and dabbing at Dominic’s face softly. After cleaning his face, he trails the fabric softly down the line of Dominic’s neck, and Mathieu hears the change in his breathing in the now silent room.

“ _Merci_ ,” Dominic breathes, albeit in his heavy English accent. Mathieu’s beaming grin, however, makes the potential embarrassment all worth it. Mathieu places the cloth aside, before leaning forward to capture Dominic’s lips in an innocent kiss.

“Will you undress me?” Mathieu asks against Dominic’s mouth, eyes shut. “I want to be naked with you.”

Dominic nods, his hands reaching around Mathieu’s torso awkwardly before the courtesan giggles and shifts around to present the bony shape of his back. Ribbon by ribbon, Dominic picks it apart expertly, now in his element. Like the husk of a chestnut it falls away, revealing the milk-white skin beneath.  Allowing Mathieu to lie back he carefully unfastens the suspender belt and unclips the stockings, meticulously shrugging each silken garment down inch by inch, wary of causing them any more damage. He manages happily not to stick a clumsy thumb through the delicate material again and folds them neatly in a small pile at the foot of the bed, before kissing the divinely soft, unblemished skin of Mathieu’s shoulderblade. Mathieu is fully naked before him, and he is absolutely beautiful.

Holding back a smile at the ticklish contact and Dominic’s gaze, Mathieu looks up and out of the window. “Dominic, look, it is dark outside.” The courtesan gets up from the bed, fully naked, and pads over to the window, Dominic watching the movements his buttocks make as he moves before standing up and following him. “ _Mon Dieu_ ,” Mathieu breathes.

The view before them is quite incredible. Paris is truly living up to its name of the city of lights, as pinpricks of brightness dance across the landscape below them. They can see the Eiffel Tower, new and shining, and they can see the lights reflecting in the Seine. Mathieu’s face is one of wonder, eyes wide as he takes it all in.

“I was born in this city,” Mathieu says quietly. Dominic embraces him from behind, letting his chin rest on his shoulder. “I lived on this city’s streets. I have met so many of her inhabitants. But I have never seen my city, I have never seen her in such splendour,” Mathieu says in a reverent tone, and Dominic presses a kiss to the top of his shoulder. He can’t think of a single word to say, and so they simply stand, pressed against each other from chest to thigh, watching the city thrive on below them.

Mathieu breaks the comfortable silence a few moments later. “I wish I could see it. Just for one day, perhaps.”

“You will,” Dominic says, and a sense of duty surges through his very soul. “I’ll show you the city, and I’ll dress you in a fine suit, black or grey!” he says with glee, taking Mathieu’s hands and watching the giddy smile spread across his face. “We’ll dine in the finest restaurants, and drink tea on the Seine, and you will be a prince.”

Mathieu grins stupidly, and Dominic kisses him. “A suit?” Mathieu asks, before tittering. “Dominic, when you said you had bought me clothes... I thought you meant the corset,” he says, a blush colouring his cheeks. Dominic tips his head up with two fingers.

“I bought you a suit, yes,” Dominic says, a wicked smirk on his lips, “But you’re not getting dressed until at least noon tomorrow,” he finishes. Mathieu laughs, before stepping forward and enveloping Dominic in his arms.

“Thank you,” he whispers into Dominic’s shoulder. “Thank you so much.”

Dominic holds Mathieu, letting it wash over him again and again that the beautiful creature in his arms is  _real_.


End file.
